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7 


m 


m 


THE   TWO   SISTERS. 


MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 

iCTHOROF  "  THE  LOST  HEIRESS,"  "INDIA,"  "  MISSING  BRIDE,"  "CCRS1 
OP  CLIFTON,"  "WIFE'S  VICTORY,"  "DESERTED  WIFE,"  ETC. 


Who  will  oeiieve  mat.  with  a  smile  wfiose  olecMftf 


Would  like  aa  angel's  soothe  a  dying  how, 
With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing 
As  e'er  passed  maiden's  lip  in  moonlit  bower ; 

That  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all  save  fear. 

A  thing  all  lightness,  life  and  glee, 

One  of  the  shapes  we  seem 
To  meet  in  visions  of  the  night, 
And  should  they  greet  our  waking  sight 

Imagine  that  we  dream  \-Oeorgt  SOL 


d: 

T.    B.    PETERSON    AND    BROTHERS, 
806    CHESTNUT    STREET. 


Entered  a-cording  to  Aet  of  Congress,  in  tlie  fear  .Sft8,  by 
T .    B .    P  E  T  E  R  b  U  K  , 

la  lb»  Clerk's  Ottka  of  the   District  Court  of  tlie   [',nt-.-..  Sia.Ur.  -v  ead  tor  Che 
fi*Htern  District  of  Penuayivauiv 


CON  T  E  N  T  S, 


fWAPTKH  MOB 

i.  Two  Night-Scenes  on  New-Year's  Eve,         .  .25 

n.  Mary  Virginia  Washington 52 

in.   New- Year's  Morning  at  Prospect  Hall,         ...     74 

iv.  The  Skeleton  at  the  Feast, 92 

v.   Magdalene, 132 

vi.  The  First  Presentiment,        .  .        • »        .         .         .        141 

VH.  Indian  Blood 153 

via.   Virginia, 164 

ix.  The  Sisters  Reunited, 174 

x.  The  Young  Governess,     .         •         .         .         .         .        183 

xi.  Mother, 192 

xii.  The  Young  Housekeepers, 200 

xiii.  The  Love-spells  of  Hallow  Eve,  .         .         .         .211 

xrv.  The  Vision  of  Magdalene,  ,         .         .        223 

xv.   The  Evening  Fireside, 232 

xvi.  Joseph, 239 

XVM.  The  Governor's  Levee, 250 

xvni.   Parting, 2<Jl 

xix.  The  Maiden's  First  Sorrow  and  Consolation,        .         .  271 
xx.  The  Adopted  Children,-  .         .  .         .         .275 

xxi.  Theodore  and  Magdalene,  ^  .         .         .279 

xxii.   Magdalene, 2S9 

scxm.   New  Life, 2f>9 

(23  > 


21  CONTENTS. 

OHiPTRK  PAOB 

xxiv.  Despair, 320 

xxv.  Black  Rock, 328 

xxvi.  The  Actress,         ....  .  333 

XXVH.  The  Deep  Heart,       ...  ...  342 

xxv  HI.  Virginia  arid  Helen,  ......  3f>l 

xxix.  The  Sitting-Room,  ....  .  359 

xxx.  The  Maiden's  Heart, 366 

xxxi.  The  Sister's  Heart, 377 

xxxii.  Cross  Purposes 389 

XXXIH.  The  Sick  Soul ;  .  4<i5 

xxxiv.  The  Comforter, 41*> 

xxxv.  Remorse, 425 

xxxvi.  Joseph  Carey's  Destiny, 439 

xxxvu.  Reconciliation, 444 

rxxvni.  Coral  and  Prince,  .  .  •  .  '  .  .  478 
xxxix.  Conclusion, 49? 


THE   TWO    SISTERS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

TWO     NIGHT-SCENES     ON     NEW-YEAR'S     EV«. 

"The  wild  wind  swept  the  mountain  side, 

And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 

Where,  'mid  the  darkest  hours  of  night, 

A  mother  wanderM  with  her  child." 

"  F/  THER  in  Heaven,  I  humbly  thank  Thee  !  I  praise 
Thee  J  I  bless  Thee  !  Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer  !  Even 
mine,  in  worthy  as  I  am!  Thou  bast  heard  my  prayer! 
Thou  hast  '  strengthened  the  weak  hands,  confirmed  the 
feeble  knees,'  sustained  me  through  many  days'  wanderings, 
aud  brought  me — almost  home,!  I  have  not  fainted  through 
hunger,  cold,  or  fatigue,  though  much,  very  much  I  have 
endured ;  nor  have  I  lost  my  way  through  the  drifted 
siiO\v,  though  almost  every  landmark  is  buried  !  There,  I 
know,  are  Prospect  Plains.  Yonder,  against  the  horizon, 
rises  Prospect  Hill ;  upon  it  stands  Prospect  Hall,  with  its 
white  chimneys  gleaming,  ghostlike,  against  the  leaden  sky  ; 
beyond  that  hill,  in  the  hollow,  lies  my  father's  house,  not  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  Mansion- House,  already  in  sight ; 


26  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

my  father's  house,  my  mother's  home,  my  birth-place — dear 
old  Blackthorns  1  Will  my  father  forgive  me  ?  Ah,  yes  ! 
stern  and  harsh  with  the  guilty — aye,  even  with  the  peni- 
tent— he  is  yet  just  with  the  innocent,  and  tender  with  the 
suffering.  When  he  knows  all  that  I  am  at  length  permit- 
ted to  tell  him — when  he  knows  that  he — whom  he  so  deeply 
hated,  against  whom  he  swore  so  terrible  a  vengeance — uaa 
not  the  selfish,  arrogant,  and  triumphing  criminal  that  he 
deemed  him  ;  when  he  knows  that  / — whom  he  so  bitterly 
cursed — am  not  the  lost  and  ruined  girl  he  believes  me; 
when  he  knows  that  this  baby  I  bear  in  my  arms,  is  not  the 
child  of  sin  and  shame  he  thinks  it ;  when  he  knows  that 
my  greatest  sin  was  a  sin  of  disobedience — then,,  then,  he 
will  forgive,  receive,  and  love  me !  Yes  !  yes  !  even  though 
I  did  return  to  him  on  my  sixteenth  birth-night,  widowed, 
beggared,  heart-broken  !  I,  his  only  child — his  lost  child  ! 
And  my  mother!  Will  she  not  forgive  me?  Ah,  yes! 
my  dear  mother,  my  blessed  mother ! — she  forgave  me  the 
hour  in  which  I  left  her — no  change  has  come  over  her 
heart — she  loves  me  still — she  will  receive  me  gladly  ;  and 
when  sinking  at  her  feet,  I  lay  my  baby  in  her  gentle  arms, 
she  will  gather  it  to  her  bosom  with  one  arm,  and  raise  and 
embrace  me  with  the  other.  Ah,  I  know  it !  I  feel  it !  I 
do  not  feel  the  cold  so  bitterly  now.  The  sight  of  Prospect 
Hall — the  knowledge  it  gives  me  that  I  am  almost  homo, 
takes  away  the  agonizing  sense  of  piercing  .cold,  and  puts 
fresh  warmth  into  my  limbs  ;  and  you,  my  little  baby,  you 
have  not  felt  the  cold  yet — so  warm  you  are  in  your  littlo 
nest,  between  my  shawl  and  bosom.  Little  one,  I  have  a 
mother,  too,  who  loves  me  as  tenderly  as  I  love  you  ;  and 
mon  she  will  warm  me,  as  I  am  warming  you.  I  grow  weary 
— almost  sleepy — how  is  this? — and  almost  in  sight  of  home, 
too  !  Rouse,  weary  heart  and  brain  !  bear  up,  feeble  limbs  1 
Ihe  goal  is  near  1" 


TWO     X  I  G  H  1  •  S  C  E  N  E  S .  27 

Such  was  the  mental  soliloquy  of  Margaret  Hawk,  as 
folding  her  infant  closer  within  her  shawl,  she  toiied  through 

the  deep  snow  covering  the  waste  plains  of  that  part  of 

County  which  borders  upon  Chesapeake  Bay. 

What  a  night  it  threatened  to  bel  What  a  scene  it  was! 
Overhead  lowered  a  dark,  portentous  sky,  by  whose  cold, 
steellike  light,  could  be  dimly  seen  field  beyond  field  of 
snow,  verging  off  ui  the  distance,  until  their  boundaries 
were  lost  in  the  murky  gloom  of  the  heavily-clouded  horizon. 

Straight  across  the  ice-fields  before  her,  and  against  the 
distant  horizon,  arose  that  dark,  uncertain  mass,  crowned 
by  a  faintly  gleaming  white  object,  which  a  stranger  could 
not  have  distinguished  from  a  darker  cloud,  tipped  with  a 
dim  light,  but  which  she  had  called  Prospect  Hill  and 
Hall. 

Nearer,  here  and  there,  slightly  varying  the  blank  mo- 
notony of  the  plains,  stood  groups  of  naked  forest  trees,  their 
skeleton  limbs  and  branches  traced  sharp  and  black  against 
the  gleaming  snow.  Here  and  there,  also,  was  a  dark  line, 
that  marked  the  border  of  some  piece  of  woods. 

Dotted  sparsedly  about,  at  wide  distances,  were  little  collec- 
tions of  dense  shadows,  that  marked  the  site  of  some  rural 
homestead ;  and  from  one  of  these  sometimes  suddenly  darted 
a  gleam  of  red  light,  made,  perhaps,  by  an  opened  door  and 
a  warm  bright  fire  within — and  sometimes  the  enlivening 
sound  of  a  fiddle,  that  gayly  spoke  of  rural  festivity  and 
frolic,  for  this  was  Xew-Year's-Eve  Night ;  and  from  many 
a  warm  and  comfortable  home  came  out  the  festive  sounds, 
glanced  out  the  festive  lights  athwart  the  frozen  snow  and 
into  the  fierce  and  howling  night. 

Did  she,  the  wanderer,  think  of,  or  envy,  the  happy  New- 
Year  revelers  ?  Ah,  no  I  far  other  thoughts  and  feelings 
filled  her  heart  and  brain  ;  and  if  for  a  moment  she  turned 
be.?  eyes  to  the  suddenly-darting  and  quickly-withdrawn 


28  THE     TWO     SISTER  3. 

lights,  it  was  but  to  use  their  fitful  streaks  to  guide  her  on 
her  way  to  a  far  «•  Barer  light. 

She  was  now  *•>  ling  up  t'he  gradually  ascending  rise  of 
the  plains  as  the;  swept  on  from  Chesapeake  Bay  toward 
Prospect  Hill, -am  straining  her  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
that  "dearer  light  '  that  distant  "light  of  home,"  which  yet 
for  many  hours,  si  ?  cannot  see — will  she  ever  see  it  ? 

Many,  many  we  -,ry  days  of  this  wintry  weather  had  she 
wandered,  with  h  •  infant  in  her  arms ;  and  now,  at  last, 
upon  this  New-T  :ar's-Eve  Night,  her  birth-night,  she  was 
"almost  home." 

But  oh  !  it  waf  a  scene  so  waste  and  weird  !  so  desolate  ! 
a  night  so  dai-l  ind  piercingly  frosty,  when,  through  the 
fierce,  black  ct  ' '.,  toiled  on  this  young,  slight,  thinly-clad 
girl,  sheltering  er  infant  in  the  folds  of  her  only  shawl. 

She  was  suf<  ing  excruciating  pangs — pangs  which  only 
those  long  «••;,•  *ed  to  severe  cold  can  know;  not  only  the 
fierce,  smarh  .g  aching  and  burning  of  her  limbs — for  the 
sense  of  i7,V,.8e  cold  is  like  that  of  fire — but  worse  than  all, 
that  int''"ubl  anguish  in  the  chest,  when,  finally,  in  the 
expres?/  Janj;  <age  of  the  poor — "the  cold  strikes  to  the 
heart!  •'  She  r  is  suffering  all  this,  but  had  roused  all  her 
energ  '.  A  bear  it. 

S1  i  toiled  o  and  on,  slowly,  with  extreme  difficulty,  but 
stiU  ru  and  on 

V/:eady  sh<  was  ascending  Prospect  Hill — and  lights 
fro  11  the  wind  ws  of  Prospect  Hall  glanced  down  the  hill. 
Oh  !  for  strer  ;th  to  get,  over  this  hill  and  reach  the  hollow 
on  the  other  '.ide  !  There  was  home  ! 

She  toiled  on  and  on — but  now  the  agony  of  the  cold  was 
giving  place  to  a  feeling  of  extreme  weariness,  of  extreme 
drowsiness,  even  of  heart  as  well  as  brain — and  now  came 
the  strong  temptation  to  stop  and  rest — if  she  could  stop 
and  rest  a  little  while — then  she  would  be  so  much  recruited 


TWO     N  I  G  H  T  -  3  C  E  N"  E  S .  '39 

as  to  be  able  to  reach  home  all  the  sooner  1 — and — climbing 
this  hiil,  was  so  much  more  wearisome  than  any  other  part 
of  her  wearisome  journey  had  been.  She  looked  around 
for  a  resting-place. 

A  bare  rock,  bared  by  the  drifting  of  the  snow,  offered 
the  only  seat.  She  sat  down  upon  it,  and  no  sooner  had 
she  sunk  to  a  resting  posture  than  that  feeling  of  irresistible 
sleepiness,  affecting  heart  as  well  as  brain,  as  I  said,  came 
with  power  upon  her,  and  her  eyes  were  about  to  close, 
when  something,  it  might  have  been  the  hand  of  her  infant 
groping  for  her  bosom,  or  the  finger  of  her  guardian  angel, 
touched  her,  and  she  suddenly  remembered  that  this  feeling 
of  extreme  drowsiness  following  the  pangs  of  severe  cold, 
if  indulged  in,  becomes  the  precursor  of  a  sleep  ending  in 
death.  Once  more  her  spirit  rising  in  its  strength  brought 
up  all  her  sinking  physical  energies  to  their  posts,  and  she 
arose  and  stood  up.'  Her  limbs  felt  twice  their  natural 
weight,  and  it  was  with  extreme  difficulty  she  conld  raise 
one  heavy  foot  after  the  other  ;  her  arms  also  appeared  no 
longer  to  fold  her  babe  by  their  own  muscular  power,  but 
seemed  to  be  locked  around  it  and  frozen  there,  there  was 
no  feeling  in  them. 

She  toiled  on — it  was  almost  a  miracle,  but  she  reached 
the  top  of  the  hill — she  passed  Prospect  Hall  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  on  the  right — as  she  passed  it  she  saw,  without 
observing,  lights  glancing  rapidly  across  the  windows,  and 
from  window  to  window,  and  from  one  floor  to  another,  as 
though  some  event  of  unwonted  bustle,  hurry,  and  import- 
ance, was  taking  place.  She  passed  the  lighted  hall  with- 
out a  second  glance — she  did  not  care  for  that,  though 
there  lived  the  gentleman  planter,  of  whose  great  estate  her 
father  was  manager  or  overseer,  the  distinguished  Joseph 
Washington,  Chief  Justice  of  the  Circuit  Court — she  passed 
the  manor-house  without  a  second  glance,  fur  then — low 


30  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

gleaming  in  the  shadowy  hollow  burned  the  star  of  her  hope, 
at  the  sight  of  which  her  dim  eyes  brightened,  for  it  shone 
from  her  mother's  own  room.  It  seemed  nearer  than  it  was 
— it  was  a  quarter  of  a  rnile  off  yet,  but  what  was  that  to 
her  who  had  traveled  so  many  miles  already.  She  braced 
for  the  last  time  her  fast  failing  frame  and  labored  on. 

Now  a  flake  of  snow  fell  and  froze  upon  her  colder  brow — 
she  looked  up — several  hours  of  night  travel  had  given  her 
an  owllike  vision  in  the  dark,  and  she  saw  that  the  black 
and  heavy  sky  was  lowered  very  near  the  earth,  at  the  same 
time  that  the  rising  wind  foretold  a  tremendous  tempest 
She  toiled  on  a  little  faster.  She  has  reached  the  foot  of 
the  hill — she  has  crossed  the  hollow — she  is  at  the  outer 
gate  of  her  father's  yard  !  pursued  by  the  wintry  storm,  for 
the  wind  has  suddenly  risen  to  a  fearful  height,  and  the  snow 
and  hail  is  whirling  fast  and  furiously  around  her,  hiding 
from  her  eyes  the  blessed,  guiding  star,  the  "light  of 
home." 

She  felt  the  gate  by  struggling  up  against  it — she  wished 
to  open  it,  but  her  arras  were  fast  locked  by  the  cold,  an.'] 
she  could  not  move  them.  She  pressed  her  body  again?  i 
it,  pushed  it  partly  open,  and  slipped  through.  She  was  in 
her  father's  yard  !  By  fitful  gleams  now  she  could  see  the 
light — she  pressed  on  toward  it. 

But  now  ! — what  now  1  Have  extreme  cold,  hunger,  and 
fatigue  completely  exhausted  her  strength  ?  Shall  she  sink 
now  1  She  staggers — wishes  to  throw  her  hands  up  to  her 
head,  but  they  are  frozen  stiff — she  sinks  slowly  in  the  snow 
. — her  senses  are  dulled — her  brain  grows  extremely  heavy 
—her  head  falls,  and  she  looses  all  consciousness  in  a  deep 
sleep — while  the  bail  and  snow  whirl  thickly  over  her. 

And  the  child — is  it  awakened  by  this  ?  Wrapped  -ip 
warmly  in  the  shawl,  and  secured  in  its  little  nest  forn.^d 
by  the  frozen  arms  and  bosom,  accustomed  to  motion,  «t 


TWO     N  1  G  II  T-  SCE  N  ES.  ol 

slept  on  soundly,  only  slightly  moving  as  its  mother  sank 
down  in  the  snow,  and  with  a  gentle  infant  sigh  dropping 
into  perfect  rest,  as  she  grew  still.  Only  for  an  instant, 
however,  did  vigilant  nature  permit  her  to  lie  in  this  death 
sleep.  Even  in  the  sudden  and  deep  sleep — in  the  profound 
and  utter  unconsciousness  of  mind  and  insensibility  of  body 
— when  the  chilled  blood  had  left  the  frozen  extremities,  and 
was  slowly,  slowly  stagnating  in  the  heart — then  that  insuf- 
ferable agony  which  attends  a  life-and-death  struggle  com- 
mencing in  the  heart — that  intolerable  oppression  of  the 
lungs — that  sense  of  suffocation — that  feeling  of  present 
death — that  instinct  of  life — suddenly  shocked  her  from  the 
death  sleep  and  set  her  wide  awake,  and  shaking  violently 
with  extreme  terror.  Death  was  ou  her  !  There  was  no 
mistaking  its  presence  1  She  recognized  and  acknowledged 
it.  Fast  as  a  powerful  effort  of  will,  a  desperate  struggle 
for  life  sent  apart  the  blood  that  stagnated  at  her  heart,  it 
rolled  back  again  and  stopped.  Death  was  on  her.  Oh  ! 
for  strength  to  reach  that  door-step  not  far  off — to  die  at 
home,  to  die  in  a  bed — with  her  mother's  arms  under  her 
head,  with  her  mother's  face  looking  down  upon  hers — 
with  her  baby  warmed  and  fed  and  sleeping  in  a  cradle — 
then  would  death  be  not  so  terrible.  A  desperate,  a  spas- 
modic effort,  and  the  stagnated  blood  once  more  circled 
freely  through  iier  heart  and  lungs,  leaving  them  to  free 
action  ;  and  she  straggled  to  her  feet  and  staggered  on, 
through  the  driving  sleet,  toward  the  lighted  window. 

She  gains  the  door-step — she  cannot  unlock  her  arms, 
but  she  will  push  against  it — she  does  so,  but  the  push  ha 
no  force,  and  makes  no  noise — the  window  by  its  side  is 
alight — she  will  go  there  and  look  in  and  see  them,  and 
ghostlike,  stand  until  they  see  her.  She  staggers  to  .Yard 
the  window. 

It  is  an  old-fashioned  casement  window  with  iron  &*shes, 


32  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

and  diamond-shaped  panes,  and  it  opens  on  h Ingres,  and 
reaches  almost  down  to  the  ground.  There  was  never  any 
shutter  or  curtain  to  that  window — vines  grew  over  it,  but 
they  are  now  of  course  dry.  It  was  her  favorite  seat,  Sum- 
mer and  Winter,  when  she  lived  at  home.  She  used  to  sit 
there  and  sew  and  watch  the  flowers  blooming — and  listen 
to  the  bees  that  hummed  in  the  hive  at  the  end  of  the  house 
in  Summer,  and  in  Winter  watch  the  snow-birds,  happy, 
hardy  little  things,  hopping  about ;  and  at  all  seasons 
amuse  herself  with  the  great  goings-on  before  the  great 
house  on  the  hill,  plainly  visible  from  this  window.  Now 
she  struggled  toward  her  favorite  window.  She  leaned 
against  the  frame-work,  while  the  snow  and  hail  whirled 
around  her.  She  looked  in — saw  the  blazing  fire,  the 
strong  light  and  deep  shadows  of  the  large  room  ;  she  saw 
her  mother — and  then — darkness  swam  in  upon  her  brain — 
and  she  sank ;  this  time  the  babe  waked  up,  moaned,  groped 
with  its  little  hand  for  her  bosom,  found  it,  and  comforted, 
sank  to  sleep  again.  She  had  sunk  down  in  full  view  of 
the  room  within — separated  only  by  the  glass  from  those 
for  the  sake  of  meeting  whom  she  would  have  lived  a  thou- 
sand years  in  purgatory — dying,  but  with  no  strength  of 
limbs  to  go  to  them,  or  of  voice  to  make  them  hear  her. 
When  the  darkness  that  had  temporarily  overswept  her 
vision,  passed  away,  and  she  turned  her  dving  eyes  within 
—-there,  right  opposite,  blazed  the  great  fire  on  the  broad 
dearth — there,  on  the  right  hand,  sat  her  mother  in  a  large 
~hair,  with  a  basket  of  stockings  by  her  side,  and  one 
*rawn  on  her  hand,  which  she  was  darning ;  and  on  the  left 
sat  her  father,  with  his  spectacles  on  his  nose — a  stand  by 
Ms  side,  with  a  large  Bible  and  a  candle  upon  it.  He  had, 
perhaps,  just  closed  the  blessed  book,  or  was  just  about  to 
open  it.  How  familiar  every  thing  looked—how  dear 
every  thing  was;  the  two  dogs  basking  before  the  tire. 


TWO      N  I  G  H  T  -  S  0  E  N  E  S .  JJ3 

Fes !  even  the  great  black  iron  andirous  with  the  lions 
heads,  and  the  large  brass  brackets  on  the  tall  mantel- 
piece ;  she  saw  them,  and  then  her  dying  gaze  was  fixed  upon 
her  mother's  face.  That  suffering  face  had  faded  and 
grown  aged  since  she  saw  it  last.  Ah  !  did  she  not  know 
why.  Oh  !  but  to  be  reconciled  to  that  mother  again.  She 
strained  her  failing  eyes  to  gaze  longer  on  that  dear  face ; 
there  were  tears  in  the  gentle  eyes.  Ah  1  did  she  not  know 
for  whom  they  were  shed  ?  And  then  she  endured  a  sharper 
pang  than  the  pains  of  death,  and  such  a  death  !  at  the 
thought  of  what  her  mother  would  suffer,  when  her  corpse 
should  be  found  there  in  the  morning.  She  should  die 
without  telling  them  all  they  ought  to  know — would  then 
her  father  forgive  his  dead  child,  and  permit  her  mother 
without  rebuke  to  mourn  her  ?  She  turned  with  difficulty 
her  eyes  upon  her  father's  face.  It  was  set  and  stern,  and 
harsher  than  ever.  As  she  looked,  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
her  mother,  and  spoke  angrily — she  saw  by  the  expression 
of  his  countenance,  and  by  the  tears  that  rolled  down  her 
poor  mother's  face — she  felt  that  they  were  remembering 
and  talking  about  her.  Was  not  this  her  sixteenth  birth- 
night — the  night  upon  which  her  mother  had  promised, 
years  ago,  that  she  should  have  a  white  cambric  dress,  and  a 
party — if  she  should  live  to  see  it  ?  Well  !  she  had  lived 
to  see  it — and  ass-uredly  to-morrow  she  would  have  the 
white  dress  and  the  party  ;  but  the  dress  would  be  a  shroud, 
and  the  party  would  gather  around  her  coffin.  Clouds 
came  over  her  eyes,  intercepting  the  sight  of  her  mother  ; 
clouds  came  over  her  soul,  hiding  the  face  of  her  Heavenlv 
Father.  Again  the  blood  tided  to  her  heart,  and  stag- 
nated there ;  again  came  the  insufferable  oppression  of  tup 
iungs — the  intolerable  agony  of  suffocation — the  last  strug- 
gle of  life  and  death  ;  and  in  the  extremity  of  terror  and 
insaiiiiv,  tier  soul  cried  out — ''I  die!  I  die!  I  le;ivc  m? 


84  '      E     TWO     SISTERS. 

mined  and  fallen  dwelling-place  !  to  go  where?  Just  God' 
I  dare  not  mock  Thy  throne  with  a  dying  prayer  for  par- 
don, now!  nor  think  that  the  sins  of  a  life  may  be  blown 
away  by  the  expiring  breath  gasping  one  word,  'Pardon.' 
Bat,  oh  !  Merciful  Father,  remit  my  doom  !  remand  my 
soul  back  to  earth  for  another  probation,  in  another  life — 
of  suffering,  of  expiation — only  another  life  I  a  life  in  which 
I  can  watch  over  this  child  with  her  heritage  of  orphanage 
and  suffering — a  life  of  redemption."  So  raved  the  dying 
girl.  A  moment  more  and  the  agonized  heart  was  at 
rest. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  storm  increased  in  fury ;  the  snow 
and  hail  whirled  rapidly  around  her,  threatening  to  bury  her 
in  a  drift. 

Now,  reader,  we  will  enter  the  farm  house. 

Now  sylvan  occupation's  done 
Aud  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun, 
And  hanjf  in  idle  trophy  near 
The  gjtme-poiich,  fishing-rod,  and  spear J 
Now  every  terrier  rough  and  grin-. 
And  greyhound  with  his  length  -j{  Htnh, 
And  pointer  now  employed  no  more 
Camber  the  kitchen's  oaken  floor ; 
New  in  his  .stall  the  impatient  steed 
Is  long  condemned  to  rest  and  feed  ; 
And  from  the  suow-eucircled  home 
Scarce  dares  the  hardiest  step  to  roam, 
Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 
The  needful  water  from  the  spring. 

Heap  on  more  wood  !     The  wind  is  chill, 
But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will 
We'll  keep  onr  New  Year  merry  still : 
Each  aare  haw  deemed  the  new-horn  v.^ar 
The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer. — Scott. 

"Awful  Heaven,  what  a  night  !  How  the  storm  hurtle* 
against  the  windows.  There'll  be  four  feet  of  snow  frozen 
on  the  groihid  to-morrow.  Such  a  stormy  exit  of  the  old 


TWO     N  I  G  H  T  -  S  G  E  N  E  S .  35 

year  and  advent  of  the  new  I  never  saw — but  once  before 
— and  I  am  sixty  years  old,"  said  Adam  Hawk,  plunging  a 
heavy  poker  between  the  great  smouldering  logs,  and  mak- 
ing them  blaze  and  roar  like  the  report  of  an  explosion, 
and  sinking  back  in  his  old  oak  chair  with  a  heavy  groan — 
which  was  answered  by  a  deep  sigh  from  his  wife,  as  she 
said, 

"  God  help  Mary  Washingion,  if  she  be  brought  to  bed 
on  such  a  night  as  this,  for  neither  doctor  nor  midwife  can 
approach  her." 

"  As  to  that,  the  granny  has  been  staying  in  the  house 
for  the  last  week.  I  brought  her  over  myself  from  Hard- 
bargain." 

"  There  was  where  you  went  with  the  ox-team  last 
Saturday,  and  never  told  me  about  it  ?" 

"Am  1  a  gossip  ?  Yes,  there  was  where  I  went.  The 
young  fool  got  scared  as  her  time  came  near,  and  none  but 
the  judge  and  the  niggers  about  the  house,  and  so  the  judge 
told  me  to  gear  up,  and  go  and  fetch  Mrs.  Comfort." 

"  Poor  Mary,  poor  motherless  girl — no  wonder  !  What 
trials  have  been  hers,  and  how  sweetly  she  has  borne  them  ! 
Her  mother  dying  when  she  was  but  a  few  weeks  old — her 
brother  waylaid  and  murdered  the  day  after  her  wedding — 
her  father  struck  with  apoplexy  on  receiving  the  news — the 
loss  of  the  property,  but  that  was  a  trifle ;  and  then  the 
sudden  death  of  her  husband,  in  the  second  month  of  her 
niarriaore ;  and  all  happening  in  less  than  ten  months. 
Poor  Mary,  poor  darling  child — no  wonder  she  is  nervous  ! 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  Adam  ?  I,  who  am  like  her  second 
mother  in  a  humble  way,  for  I  raised  her — I  ought  to 
have  gone  and  staid  with  her  to  comfort  her.  And  I  would 
this  blessed  night,  if  it  wasn't  so  dark  and  stormy.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  while  it,  was  so  I  could  go,  Adam  ?" 

;'  Just  because  I  knew  if  I  told  you  any  thing  about  it, 


36  THE     TWO     SISTKKS. 

you  would  go,  and  I  didn't  want  you  to  go — that's  all 
about  it." 

"  Oh,  Adam  !  and  she  such  a  sweet  child  to  us — just  like 
our  own  child,  much  as  she  is  above  us — such  a  blessing  to 
me  always,  such  a  comfort  to  me  in  my  sorrow.  Oh, 
Adam  I" 

"  I  tell  you,  then,  you  were  not  Jit  to  go  to  her,  with  that 
fitified  thumping  of  the  heart  and  stopping  of  the  heart 
that  runs  in  your  family,  and  that  you  have  had  so  bad  ever 
since— since — d —  it! — God  forgive  me  ! — that  has  followed 
you  for  the  last  year." 

"  Yes,  Adam,  yes ;  but  I  think  I  should  have  died  with 
it,  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  sweet  child  Mary.  Think  of 
that  time  when  you  hurried  half  crazy  off  to  town  to  search 
for  our  poor — " 

"WOMAN!" 

"Well,  then,  when  you  hurried  off  and  left  me  here,  not 
knowing  how  ill  I  really  was  with  grief — when  I  couldn't 
move  but  that  the  palpitation  of  the  heart  would  nearly 
kill — couldn't  drop  into  a  doze,  but  that  the  stopping  of 
the  heart  would  almost  suffocate  me — think  then  of  dear 
Mary,  fresh  from  the  deathbed  of  husband,  in  the  new  grief 
of  her  young  widowhood,  leaving  the  mansion-house  and 
coming  down  here  to  sleep  with  me,  or,  rather,  to  lie  in  the 
bed  with  me — to  lie  close  to  me,  with  her  arm  thrown  over 
my  side  so  lightly,  so  softly,  to  note  the  beatings  of  my 
heart  while  I  went  to  sleep,  and  to  rub  my  side  if  she  felt  it 
beating  slowly  ;  and  staying  with  me  all  day  to  guard  me 
from  all  sudden  noises  and  shocks  that  should  start  my 
heart  to  palpitating  again.  Think  of  her  continuing  that 
until  her  own  delicate  situation  gradually  confined  her  to 
the  mansion-house." 

"  And  now  then,  that  was  no  more  than  her  duty  to  do. 
Were  not  you  a  mother  to  her  iu  her  helpless  infancy  ? 


TWO     NIGHT-SCENES.  87 

Wouldn't  she  have  died  if  you  hadn't  divided  your  own 
child's  milk  with  her  ?  Tell  me  that !" 

"  Yes,  yes — so  she  would,  for  she  was  a  very  delicate 
baby — but  then  that  was  so  natural,  a  heathen  would  have 
done  that  for  a  poor  little  orphan  babe — too  delicate  to  be 
raised  by  hand  !" 

"No,  a  heathen  wouldn't,  either — no,  nor  a  Christian 
either,  upon  the  terms  that  you  did — refusing  to  take  a 
dollar,  poor  as  you  were  !" 

"  Oh,  Adam !  as  if  I  could  have  sold  my  breast  milk  and 
my  tenderness  to  a  poor  little  babe  !  an  orphan  babe,  and 
I  a  mother,  with  a  mother's  feelings.  Xo,  Adam,  I  was  a 
healthy  woman  then,  and  conld  very  well  nurse  two  babies 
— and  we  were  not  in  need.  But  if  it  had  been  otherwise, 
and  I  had  been  the  poorest  houseless  wanderer  in  the  world, 
and  any  one  had  asked  me  to  nurse  a  baby,  and  offered  ue 
wages,  I  should  have  said,  'No — give  me  house  room, 
necessary  food  and  raiment,  and  I  will  be  strengthened  to 
nurse  your  baby — but  no  money  for  that — give  me  sewing 
to  do  meanwhile,  and  pay  me  for  that  if  you  like.'  No 
sale  of  nature's  tenderness,  that  is  my  feeling." 

"And  a  very  foolish  feeling  it  is.  People  sell  every  thing 
— stock  in  trade,  labor — that  is  nothing — but,  their  affec- 
tions, their  intellect,  honesty,  health,  truth,  soul  and  body, 
they  sell  for  money,  and  call  it  '  business,' — so  you  see  yours 
is  a  verv  stupid  feeling." 

"Well,  it's  my  stupid  feeling,  and  it  keeps  me  warm  and 
comforts  me,  which  is  best  of  all." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !" 

''Whoso  receiveth  one  of  these  little  ones  in  My  name, 
receiveth  Me.' " 

'•'  Hold  your  tongue,  Peg  !  yon — hush  !" 

"  Do  good  and  lend — hoping  for  nothing  in  return." 

"Will  yon  stop  ? — s'pose  nil  the  world  were  to  do  that? 
Pretty  prey  the  simple  would  be  to  the  subtle." 


88  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"If  all  the  world  were  to  do  that,  then  there  would  be 
no  'simple'  dupes,  and  no  'subtle'  cheats,  but  all  would  be 
wise  and  good,  and  the  kingdom  of  God  would  come.  In 
the  meantime,  let  all  that  have  it  in  them  to  do  good,  do  it 
for  the  sake  of  good,  hoping  for  nothing  in  return,  and 
they  will  lose  nothing,  even  in  this  world — '  Cast  thy  bread 
upon  the  waters,  and  after  many  days  it  shall  be  found.' " 

"Peg,  hush!  I  hate  to  hear  women  preach — they  don't 
understand  the  Scriptures.  St.  Paul  says  that  women 
should  be  silent,  or  inquire  of  their  husbands." 

"Well,  then — but  you  have  not  quoted  right,  I  think — 
I  think  women  were  to  be  silent  in  the  church,  or  in  the 
congregation.  No  matter,  I  only  wanted  to  remind  my 
husband — for  I  like  to  prove  a  Scripture  promise  fulfilled — • 
that  our  bread  cast  upon  the  waters  has  been  found.  Whea 
I  took  little  Mary  Virginia — though  I  did  not  take  her  for 
the  sake  of  good,  but  only  because  I  somehow  couldn't  help 
it — Heaven  keep  me  from  the  deceit  of  taking  credit  I  do 
not  merit — when  I  took  little  Mury  Virginia  for  love  and 
mercy  and  not  for  money — the  Lord  knows  that  I  never 
thought  it  would  turn  out  as  it  has.  But  see  !  what  a 
heart's  comfort  she  is  to  me — while  her  father  loaded  you 
with  benefits,  recommending  you  to  Judge  Washington  as  a 
proper  man  to  manage  his  estate.  And  when  the  Judge 
moved  into  the  new  mansion-house,  upon  the  marriage  of 
his  son  with  Mary — then,  for  the  love  he  bore  his  daughter- 
in-law,  our  foster  child,  he  gave  you  this  fine  old  farm-house 
to  live  in,  with  nearly  all  the  furniture,  just  as  he  himself 
hpd  occupied  it  for  all  his  life.  Ah  !  that  should  be  p 
lesson  on  faith  for  our  whole  lives,  Adam  !  That  should 
teach  you  that  my  going  to  comfort  my  sweet  child  in  her 
trial,  will  never  hurt  me.  And,  oh  I  if  it  did,  it  is  still 
ray  duty  to  go.  It  is  a  duty  I  owe  her.  She  ha? 
done  so  much  for  me  1 — more  than  ai.y  other  young  ludv 


T  W  O     N  I  G  H  T  -  S  C  E  N  E  S .  39 

In   the   world    would    do    for    anybody   except    her   own 
mother.'' 

"  You  have  done  enough  for  her,  as  I  said  before." 

"  I  have  done  nothing  but  what  we  have  been  abundantly 
compensated  for,  and  nothing  but  what  any  heathen  under 
the  same  circumstances  would  do — let  alone  a  Christian." 

"  And  I  repeat  to  you  that  you  are  a  fool  !  Christian  ! — 
yes,  many  that  pass  for  good  Christians,  aye  !  and  that  are 
good  Christians,  would  not  undertake  what  you  did.  Mary 
herself,  good  as  she  is,  would  not  do  it.  Come  1  there  ! 
now  !  are  you  silenced  ?" 

"  Xo— for  Mary  would  do  it  I" 

"  What?" 

"  I  say  Mary  would  do  as  I  did." 

"  Yes,  perhaps,  if  she  had  been  in  your  sphere  of  humble 
life,  she  might  have  taken  some  lady's  child  to  nurse,  without 
pay,  for  you  have  brought  her  up  to  be  just  such  a  fool  as 
you  are  yourself — but  I  am  not  talking  of  what  might  have 
been,  I  am  talking  of  what  is,  and  I  say  that  Mrs.  Mary 
Virginia  Washington — the  young  lady  of  Prospect  Hall — • 
would  not  now  take  an  orphan  baby  that  might  be  cast 
helpless  on  her  mercy  to  nurse  with  her  own,  at  her  own 
breast — to  save  its  life — good  Christian  as  she  is." 

"  Mary  would  ;  if  there  was  no  one  else  to  do  it,  Mary 
would !" 

"Folly!" 

"  Mary  would." 

At  this  moment  a  terrible  blast  of  wind,  driving  on  an 
avnlanche  of  snow  and  hail  against  the  side  of  the  house, 
ghook  the  firm  building  to  its  foundation. 

"  A  wful  Lord  !  what  a  night  1  It  was  just  such  a  night, 
sixteen  years  ago,  that  my  Maggy  was  born." 

"  WOMAN  !  that  name  !" 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  can't  help  it.    I  can't.    My  heart  is  broken 


40  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

this  night.  God  !  what  a  blurl  was  that !  Surely  the  win- 
dow sashes  will  be  blown  out !  Yes,  yes — sixteen  years 
ago — how  forcibly  this  night  and  storm  brings  back  4his 
night  sixteen  years  ago  1  When  my  poor  baby  was  born. 
Ah,  she  is  a  baby  still.  Poor  little  one  !  Did  not  the  bit- 
ing cold  and  the  hurtling  snow-storm  then  betoken  all  the 
wretchedness  that  has  come  upon  her  ?  They  say  that  the 
earlier  a  child  is  born  in  the  year,  the  more  fortunate  will 
be  its  destiny ;  and  the  later  in  the  year,  the  more  adverse 
will  be  its  fate.  My  poor  only  one  was  born  at  eleven 
o'clock,  old-year  night." 

The  tears  were  running  down  the  poor  mother's  face,  and 
the  stern  father  himself  seemed  struggling  with  some  strong 
emotion — the  muscles  of  his  iron  face  worked — he  clutched 
at  his  grizzled  hair,  and  then  burst  out  in  fury,  exclaiming : 

"No  more  of  her  !  God  !  you  will  drive  me  mad  !  No 
more  of  her,  I  say  1  I  wish  I  knew  that  she  was  dead.  I 
would  that  she  were  stretched  out  here,  stiff  and  stark,  at 
my  feet !  Oh  1  that  I  could  find  her  !  I  would  shut  her 
up  a  day  to  prepare  her  soul  to  meet  its  Maker,  and  at  night 
I  would  take  the  life  I  gave  her  !  I  would  put  her  to  death  ! 
Even  as  Abraham  would  have  offered  up  his  spotless  son — 
even  as  Jephtha  sacrificed  his  virgin  daughter — so  I  would 
immolate  my  fallen  child — would  purify  her  as  by  fire  1" 

A  low  growl  and  mutter  came  from  some  obscure  corner 
of  the  large  and  dusky  room,  and  the  words  in  a  guttural 
tone  : 

"  You'd  burn  her  up,  would  you,  you  sanctified  old  sin- 
ne/ !  and  swing  for  it  in  this  world,  and  be  sent  to  h —  in 
the  other — which  may  the  Lord  grant !  Amen." 

But  these  words,  in  the  howling  and  shrieking  of  the 
storm,  attracted  no  attention.  Another  blast  of  wind,  more 
furious  than  the  first,  shook  the  house,  until  the  substantial 
building  seemed  to  sway  to  and  fro  like  a  slight  sapling. 


TWO     NIGHT-SCENES.  41 

"  Ah  !  merciful  Father  !  then  what  a  storm  it  is  !  How 
ranch  damage  will  be  done,  the  Lord  only  knows.  Heaven 
be  with  poor  Mary,  and  grant  that  if  she  is  brought  to  bed 
to-night,  it  may  be  after  midnight  !" 

"  I  wonder  what  keeps  that  folly  running  into  your  head  ? 
Why  should  it  happen  to-night,  anyhow,  of  all  nights  in  the 
week — and  then  that  cursed  folly  about  the  old  year  and 
the  new  year,  and  happiness  and  misery  depending  upon  the 
difference  between  them  !  And  if  there  were  any  thing  in 
that  pagan  superstition — why,  who  is  Mary  Washington, 
that  a  patent  for  a  happy  life  is  to  be  taken  out  for  her 
child,  any  more  than  anybody  else's?  Stuff! — what  puts 
such  things  in  your  head  ?" 

"Ah,  I  don't  know;  but  I'm  sorely  troubled  to-night. 
This  horrible  storm  1  It  shatters  my  heart  so  !  It  brings 
again  the  night  when  my  Maggy — " 

"  DEATH  !  if  you  do  bnt  hint  her  name  again,  I  shall 
launch  such  a  malediction  upon  her  head,  that  you  shall 
die  to  hear  it !" 

"Ah  !  do  not  be  so  obdurate — consider — " 

"  If  I  could  but  find  her  I  would  smother  her !  Oh,  the 
shameless  creature  I  dressed  up  in  rouge,  and  satin,  and 
jewels,  now  I'eveling  off  the  old  year  among  companions 
only  less  degaaded  than  herself!  Do  you  think  that  if  I 
knew  her  place  of  abode,  I  would  not  enter  it  and  strangle 
her  before  her  fellows?  Satan's  fiends!  but  my  fingers 
strengthen  and  contract  at  the  bare  thought !" 

"  Oh,  do  not  talk  so  !  You  are  mistaken — she  is  not 
thai!  She  never  could  be  thai!  Onr  child — Mary  Vir- 
ginia's foster  sister  could  not  be  that.  Mary,  too,  wept 
when  she  was  lost ;  but  Mary  believes  her  pure  ;  Mary  prays 
with  me  for  her  recovery.  And  even  if  she  were  betrayed, 
guilty,  lost,  Mary  would  love  her  and  pray  for  her  still — so 
thu  sinless  feels  for  the  sinful.  The  spotless  Son  of  God 


42  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

\vis  merciful.  Only  sinners  wish  to  take  vengeance  on  sin- 
ntrs.  Do  not  you  be  one  of  them.  The  good  ever  pity 
and  wish  to  recover  and  redeem  the  erring  ;  do  you  be  like 
thi'-m.  My  dear  baby  !  My  little  one  !  My  Maggy  !  Her 
sin,  at  the  very  worst,  was  only  too  much,  too  blind  love. 
God  will  redeem  her.  God  will  hear  my  prayers,  and — 
Mt-ry's — God  will  pity  us.  God  will  redeem  her  and  bring 
her  back  to  me — my  little  one !  my  Maggy  !" 

"  HUSH  !  HUSH  !"  almost  howled  the  father,  starting  up 
ar.d  clutching  the  iron-gray  hair  on  his  temples  with  both 
ban  Is.  Just  at  this  moment,  in  the  pausing  of  the  wind, 
was  heard  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door. 

The  overseer  strided  to  it — pulled — jerked  it  open,  letting 
in  an  avalanche  of  snow ;  and  behind  and  through  it,  a 
great,  big  negro  man,  closely  wrapped  in  a  coat  with  mani- 
fold capes,  and  a  fox-skin  cap  coming  down  over  his  ears. 

The  first  thing  done  was  to  close  the  door  against  the 
driving  wind  and  sleet,  by  the  united  efforts  of  Adam  Hawk 
and  the  negro,  and  then  the  latter  spoke  in  a  hurried  voice 
to  the  overseer,  who  answered  : 

"  Yes,  hasten  back  and  tell  the  judge  I  will  be  there  in- 
stantly," and  reopening  the  door  cautiously  a  little  way,  he 
let  the  man  out  again  into  the  tempest,  and  closing  it  be- 
hind him,  returned  to  the  fireside,  saying  : 

"  It  is  as  you  feared,  Peggy  ;  Mary  Washington  is  ill. 
The  judge  has  sent  for  me  to  come  to  the  house  immedi- 
ately." 

"  Something  told  me  so — something  really  told  me  so  ! 
Oh  !  Heaven  be  with  Mary  !" 

"  Come,  stir  about.     Get  my  great  coat  and  mufflers." 

"Yes,  but  I'm  going  myself." 

"  You  !  You're  mad.  You'd  perish  in  the  storm  before 
you  got  a  dozen  yards  from  the  house." 

'  Oh,  I  must  go  !     I  should    die   to  stay  here  and  know 


TWO     NIGHT-SCENES.  43 

that  Mar}'  was  suffering,  when  I  could  not  aid  or  comfort 
her." 

"  Then  you'd  die  any  way  ;  and  it's  better  to  die  in  the 
house  than  in  the  storm.  So  you'll  stay  where  you  are." 

"  I  cannot.      Indeed  I  cannot.      I  must  go  to  Mary.'' 

Aditm  Hawk  turned  round,  and  fronting  her,  said  : 

"  Peggy,  now  you  understand  that  you  are  not  to  go 
Sn,  therefore,  do  not,  take  up  my  time  in  needless  talk,  but 
help  me  on  with  my  coat." 

She  said  no  more,  fearing  indeed  to  delay  him,  but  helped 
him  to  equip  himself  for  the  tramp  through  the  tempest. 
She  lighted  the  lantern  for  him,  let  him  out,  shut  the  door 
behind  him,  and  then  began  to  prepare  herself  to  brave  the 
storm  also — for  her  mind  was  set  to  go  to  Prospect  Hall 
that  night  to  attend  her  foster  child.  She  put  on  a  pair 
of  thick  shoes,  and  drew  over  them  a  pair  of  her  husband's 
long  thick  yarn  stockings.  She  put  on  a  hood,  tying  a 
thick  vail  over  it  to  muffle  her  face  ;  lastly,  wrapping  a 
heavy  cloak  around  her  form,  she  opened  the  door  to  set 
out  for  Prospect  Hall.  She  had  no  lantern  ;  and  as  she 
groped  her  way  out,  buffeted  about  by  the  furious  tempest, 
she  stumbled  and  fell  over  something  at  the  same  time  that 
a  child's  feeble  wail  and  warm  breath  passed  her  face.  She 
strugg.ed  upon  her  knees,  and  astonished  to  the  last  degree, 
sought  to  raise  the  object  over  which  she  had  fallen.  It 
was  altogether  not  a  very  heavy  burden  ;  she  lifted  it,  and 
then  a  wild  cry  of  mingled  joy,  anguish,  and  despair  burst 
from  her  lips  above  the  howling  of  the  storm.  This  cry 
speedily  brought  out  from  the  house  an  old  deformed  crea 
ture,  who,  stumbling  and  blundering  through  the  tempest, 
pitched  at  her  side. 

"  What  now — what  now  ?"  growled  this  object. 

"  Oh  God  !  it  is — it  is — it  is  Maggy.  Help  me  to  save 
her  " 


44  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

The  dwarf,  who  possessed  great  strength,  lifted  the  body 
and  bore  it  in  the  house,  followed  by  the  half-crazy  woman. 
He  laid  the  body  on  a  settle,  and  ran  to  bring  a  bed  from 
an  upper  chamber,  and  cast  it  down  on  the  floor  before  the 
fire,  while  the  delirious  mother  was  frantically  rubbing  her 
temples,  rubbing  her  hands,  and  trying  to  extricate  the 
living  baby  from  the  frozen  arms  of  the  body. 

She  at  last  succeeded  in  extricating  the  half-dead  babe 
from  the  locked  arms,  and  taking  some  pillows  from  the 
laden  dwarf,  laid  it  down  on  a  hastily  prepared  pallet  on 
the  settee.  Then  calling  the  dwarf  to  assist  her  in  raising 
the  body,  she  carried  it  into  her  own  bedroom,  where  a 
warm  fire  was  burning.  This  was  the  adjoining  room,  and 
here  she  gave  her  whole  attention  to  desperate  efforts  at  re- 
animating the  frozen  limbs.  Thankful  for  even  male  help 
at  her  extreme  need,  she  allowed  the  dwarf  to  assist  her  in 
divesting  the  stiff  and  swelled  arms  of  the  sleeves  partly 
frozen  to  them,  and  theu  to  draw  off  the  stiffly-frozen  dress, 
and  lay  the  cold  form  in  a  large  warm  blanket.  During  all 
this  time,  she  would  cast  anxious  glances  of  speechless  agony 
at  the  dwarf,  as  if  to  seek  comfort  from  his  apparently 
better  experience  ;  and  for  some  time  the  latter  would  shake 
his  head  sorrowfully,  but  persevere  in  his  efforts  at  resusci- 
tation. At  last  his  dull  eyes  brightened,  and  touching  her, 
he  said  : 

"  Not  dead." 

"  Thank  God  !  Oh,  thank  God !"  said  the  mother's  raised 
eyes  and  clasped  hands  ;  but  not  a  word  was  spoken  in  reply. 

"May  die,  though,"  said  the  dwarf. 

But  the  mother's  hopes  were  raised,  and  she  toiled  on 
vigorously,  still  zealously  seconded  by  the  dwarf.  At  last, 
when  there  was  a  slightly  perceptible  warmth  under  the 
arms  and  about  the  region  of  the  heart,  the  dwarf  got  up 
and  said  : 


T  W  0     NIGHT-SCENES.  i~> 

"  I'm  going  to  the  child,"  and  waddled  into  the  other 
room. 

She  looked  after  him  with  a  countenance  expressive  of 
her  gratitude;  said  nothing  though,  but  kept  on  with  her 
efforts  of  recover)'.  At  last  the  white  breast  slightly  con- 
vulsed, the  white  throat  throbbed,  both  grew  still,  then  the 
blue  lips  and  eyelids  quivered,  a  deep  sigh,  and  the  large, 
wondering  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  gazing  into  her  moth- 
er's face. 

"  Maggy,  my  darling,  it  is  I.     Don't  you  know  me  ?" 

The  large,  dark  eyes — so  very  large  and  dark,  in  contrast 
with  the  wan  face — were  still  fixed  wonderingly  in  her 
mother's  face. 

"  It  is  mother,  Maggy  ;  don't  you  know  her  ?" 

The  blue  lips  moved,  though  the  gaze  was  not  with- 
drawn. Her  mother  bent  down  to  catch,  perhaps,  her 
faintly  murmured  words. 

"  Dead,  too  ?" 

"  Who  dead,  Maggy,  my  dear  ?     Xobody's  dead.1' 

The  blue  lips  faintly  smiled,  and  she  tried  to  raise  the 
still  stiffened  arms,  failed  to  do  so,  and  then  faintly  smiled 
as  if  at  her  failure ;  and  during  all  this  while,  her  feeding 
gaze  was  not  for  an  instant  withdrawn  from  her  mother's 
face,  that  seemed  a  feast  to  their  long-starved  vision,  and 
all  this  while  her  mother  still  rubbed  and  bathed  and 
pressed  her  frosted  arms.  At  last  her  gaze  turned  anx- 
iously around,  and  her  lips  moved.  Her  mother  stooped 
down  to  catch  her  faint  words — 

"  My  baby !" 

Peggy  had  forgotten  the  strange  little  one  in  her  anxiety, 
lint  now  she  went  to  the  door,  and  opening  it,  slightly  spoke 
to  the  dwarf,  who  immediately  came  in  with  the  child, 
warmly  wrapped  up,  in  one  hand,  and  the  mug  of  warm  pap 
iu  tha  other.  The  child  was  too  young  to  smile  yet,  but  it 


46  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

looked  quite  alive  to  the  comforts  of  warmth,  food,  and 
tender  nursing.  Mrs.  Hawk  took  the  baby  in  her  arms, 
and  carried  it  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  Maggy  smiled,  and 
seemed  satisfied,  and  her  mother  returned  the  babe  to  the 
•-harge  of  its  rough  though  tender  nurse,  who  took  it  from 
he  room,  and  soon  after  returned,  bearing  a  glass  of  warm 
.jordial,  which  he  brought  to  the  bed,  saying : 

"  She  must  drink  this." 

Peggy  put  it  to  her  daughter's  lips,  and  she  drank  it 
slowly,  and  was  revived. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  distinct  voice. 

"  Mustn't  talk,"  said  the  dwarf. 

"Don't  talk,  Maggy,  darling;  wait  a  minute  till  you  are 
stronger." 

"  Mother  !"  persisted  the  dying  girl,  but  in  lower,  fainter 
tones. 

Peggy  bent  down  to  her  face. 

"  Mother,  I  was  in  Heaven  just  now.  T  thought  yov 
were  there  when  I  saw  you.  Mother,  God  has  forgiven  me 
— you  have  forgiven  me — ask  father  also  to  forgive  me." 

"  My  darling  child,  my  Maggy,  he  must — he  will — and 
Mary  Virginia  loves  you  still — she  will  come  to  see  you." 

"Mother,"  she  murmured,  in  a  still  lower  voice,  "sit  on 
the  side  of  my  bed,  and  raise  me  in  your  arms — I  feel  like 
I  was  your  little  child  still,  so  helpless  I  am.  There — that 
is  nice  !  let  me  now  lay  my  head  on  your  bosom — put  my 
two  stiff  hands  together  in  my  lap,  mother,  and  hold  them 
between  your  own — there  now,  mother,  listen  to  me,  for  I 
have  something  to  tell  you." 

"  She  mustn't  talk  /"  repeated  the  dwarf,  emphatically,  as 
he  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  nursing  the  baby. 

"  Maggy,  dear  Maggy,  don't  talk  !  I  know  what  you 
want  to  say — I  believe  it,  Maggy,  beforehand.  I  always 
did — so  did  Mary." 


TWO     NIGHT-SCENES.  47 

"  Bless  dearest  Mary  !" 

"SHE  MUSTN'T  TALK!  SHE  MUSTN'T  TALK.!"  desper- 
ately exclaimed  the  dwarf,  wringing  his  hands. 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  darling  Maggy  !" 

"Let  me — once  more — where  is  my  father? — I  saw  him 
through  the  window  before  I  fell." 

"  He  is  gone  to  the  mansion-house." 

"  Ah,  what  there  ?     I  saw,  in  passing — " 

She  paused — her  countenance  changed — then  reviving  an 
instant,  she  said,  suddenly  : 

"  Mary  Virginia  is  near  her  confinement  ?" 

"  Yes,  darling,  yes." 

A  divine  light  radiated  her  countenance  an  instant :  she 
exclaimed  : 

"  My  prayer  is  heard  !" 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh !"  cried  the  dwarf,  wringing  his  hands 
violently. 

The  gray  of  death  crept  over  her  countenance — the 
blood  flowed  to  her  heart  for  the  last  time,  and  stilled 
then  forever — one  moment  of  suffocating  agony,  and  all  was 
over. 

"Oh,  Maggie,  I  shall  not  be  long  behind  you!"  said 
the  bereaved  mother,  in  a  tone  of  strange  calmness.  It 
was  the  apathy  of  complete  despair. 

"  We  might  have  saved  her,"  groaned  the  deformed,  as 
though  communing  with  himself  rather  than  addressing  the 
mother. 

"No,  no,  we  could  not !  Not  hunger,  cold,  toil  or  sor- 
row killed  her,  though  these  helped.  It  was  disease  of  the 
heart,  brought  on  by  these.  It  is  that  which  will  take  me 
Boon  after  her,"  she  said,  in  the  same  quiet  tone. 

"  We  might  have  got  over  these  rapids.  We  might  have 
kept  her  on  a  little  longer." 

"I  aai  content !     I  am  content !"  said  Peggy. 


4(6  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Ah,  it  is  sadder  to  hear  you  say  that,  than  it  would  be 
to  see  you  sad  and  weep." 

"  Oh,  if  you  knew,  if  you  knew,  what  I  have  felt  for  her 
this  last  year,  you  would  feel  how  much  better  it  is  to  see 
her  here,  and  to  know  that  not  many  hours  hence  I  shall  lie 
by  her  side  !  Yes,  I  know  it — it  is  only  by  an  effort  that  I 
now  keep  my  death  at  bay — it  will  advance  upon  me  soon, 
and  take  me  to  her." 

Then  she  gently  laid  the  head  of  the  dead  girl  down, 
settled  her  limbs,  covered  her,  and  kneeling  by  the  side  of 
the  bed,  raised  her  soul  in  prayer  to  God.  Meanwhile  the 
dwarf  laid  down  the  sleeping  infant,  replenished  the  fire, 
and  stole  quietly  away  from  the  house  for  assistance. 

ilalf  an  hour  after  this,  a  heavy  tramp  was  heard  with- 
out, the  door  wai  pushed  open,  the  sound  of  stamping  feet 
stamping  off  the  snow  in  the  next  room,  and  then  the  over- 
seer's gruff,  harsh  tones,  calling  out :  . 

"  Peggy,  Peggy,  I  say  !  why  have  you  suffered  this  fire 
in  the  keeping-room  to  go  down  ?  Where  are  you  now  ?" 

Peggy  opened  the  door,  and  came  out. 

"  Well,  you  had  laid  down,  I  suppose,"  he  continued,  still 
shaking  off  the  snow  ;  "  that's  right ;  I  don't  find  fault  with 
that,  only  you  might  have  made  Bruin  put  on  a  couple  of 
heavy  logs  to  keep  the  fire  hot  for  me,  coming  in  out 
of  the  cold.  Thank  God,  the  storm  is  over,  and  it  has 
cleared  off.  Come,  help  me  off  with  my  great-coat.  Well, 
the  child  is  born.  It  is  a  girl ;  and  as  you  were  anxious 
upon  the  point,  I  made  inquiry  as  to  the  precise  hour  and 
moment  of  its  birth,  and  am  happy  to  tell  you  that  the 
family,  by  some  strange  oversight,  are  in  a  glorious  state 
of  uncertainty  as  to  whether  the  babe  was  born  this  year  or 
last ;  the  nurse  swearing  that  it  was  one  minute  before 
twelve,  and  the  doctor  affirming  that  it  was  two  minutes 
after  ;  so  that  it  is  a  point  of  doubt,  whether  the  child  wan 


TWO     NIGHT-SCENES.  49 

born  in  the  last  death-throes  of  the  old  year,  and  is  there- 
fore to  be  unutterably  miserable,  or  whether  it  came  into 
the  world,  twin-born  with  the  new  year,  and  is  therefore  to 
be  extremely  happy,"  concluded  Adam  Hawk,  in  a  tone  of 
coarse  irony,  without  seeing  the  fixed  despair  of  his  wife's 
look.  "  Well,  why  do  you  not  answer  me  ?  You  haven'* 
said  a  word  yet  to  this  hairbreadth  point  of  dispute  ;  did 
you  hear  me  say  that  the  babe  was  safely  brought  forth 
between  one  minute  to  twelve  and  two  minutes  after  ?" 

"  Yes  !  That  was  the  time  our  Maggy  died.  Come 
here,  Adam  1" 

He  did  not  appear  to  hear  her  first  words,  but  something 
in  her  manner  constrained  him  to  go  where  she  led  him,  into 
the  bed-room. 

There  lay  the  dead  girl ;  her  features  in  the  beautiful  com- 
posure of  sleep,  and  the  expression  that  of  innocent  child- 
hood. The  bed  and  its  coverings  were  all  of  white,  and 
upon  it  she  lay  extended  ;  the  white  counterpane  drawn  up 
smoothly  over  her  form  as  far  as  her  chest.  Her  face  was 
exposed,  and  its  marble  whiteness  formed  a  ghastly  contrast 
to  the  arched  eyebrows,  long  eyelashes  resting  on  the  snowy 
cheek,  and  the  long  locks  of  hair  laid  down  each  side,  all  of 
jet  black. 

He  approached  the  body  with  a  dark  and  threatening 
scowl  upon  his  countenance — it  softened  and  cleared  as  he 
gazed  long  and  wistfully — then  grew  suddenly  anxious — he 
stooped  and  raised  the  body.  The  long,  silky  black  hair  fell 
sweeping  away  from  the  pallid  brow.  He  anxiously,  nerv- 
ously placed  his  hands  upon  her  temples,  upon  her  heart — • 
and  muttered  low,  in  gentle  tones, 

"  Ma.ggy — Maggy,  my  child  !  my  dear  child  !  Wife  !  this 
if?  not  death .'  It  is  a  swoon  !  Let  me  lay  her  down  again  I 
My  God,  Peggy,  why  don't  you  move  ?" 

Tie  was  all  this  time  rubbing  her  hands,  feeling  her  wrist 


&0  THE   TWO   SISTERS. 

tor  the  pulse — running  his  hand  in  her  bosom  to  feel  for  the 
beating  of  her  heart ;  himself  trembling  all  the  while.  The 
sternness  of  the  would-be  uncompromising  judge  had  com- 
pletely  given  place  to  the  tenderness  and  anxiety  of  the 
father. 

"  Water,  Peggy  !  Vinegar,  hartshorne  !  Good  God  ! 
woman,  why  do  you  stand  there  like  a  statue  ?" 

"  Adam,  she  is  dead  I" 

"  Dead  !  and  you  tell  me  so,  so  calmly  1  dead  !  It  is  not 
*o!" 

"  Adam,  she  is." 

"  Dead  !  you  stand  there  saying  she  is  Dead  !  You  do 
not  love  her  as  I  do  !  Dead  !  Oh,  God  !  oh,  God  !  It  is 
not  so  !  My  Maggy  !  my  Maggy  !"  he  exclaimed,  frantically 
rubbing  her  hands.  His  wife  went  to  him  and  put  both  her 
arms  around  him,  and  said, 

"  Adam,  dear,  leave  the  dead  in  quiet  !  It  is  irreligious 
to  disturb  her  snored  corpse  so — leave  her  body,  Adam — 
come  away  !  her  spirit  is  with  God  1" 

"  I  cannot  !  I  cannot !  You  never  loved  her  as  I  love 
her,  or  you  would  not  think  I  could  !  You  would  not  be 
so  quiet !  Oh  !  my  Maggy,  dead  !  dead  with  my  harsh  words 
in  your  memory  !  dead  without  receiving  my  forgiveness  I" 

"Adam,  do  not  grieve  so  bitterly.  Remember  if  she  did 
not  receive  your  pardon,  neither  did  she  ever  hear  your  curse  ! 

"  Curse  !  I  never  cursed  her  !  Curse  my  Maggy  !  Oh  ! 
if  I  had  I  should  have  been  mad  !  If  ever  I  came  nigh  to 
do  it — afterward  I  always  silently  prayed  to  God  not  to 
mind  what  I  said  in  my  wrath  !  but  to  bless  her — to  bless 
her!  Oh!  dead!  without  knowing  how  tenderly  I  icved 
her  still  !» 

"Adam,  she  spoke  of  you  with  affection  in  her  dying 
hour.  She  told  rne  to  ask  you  in  her  name  for  pardon.  Sha 
died  in  my  arms — she  died  in  blessed  peace." 


TWO   NIGHT-SCENES.  51 

But  still  Adam  Hawk  tore  his  gray  hair  and  refused  to 
be  comforted ;  and  still  Peggy  maintained  her  composure, 
reproached  all  the  time  by  her  husband  with  not  loving  their 
child  as  well  as  he  did. 

At  last  Peggy  took  the  infant  from  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and  bringing  it  to  him,  said — 
"  This  is  her  child,  Adam  I" 
"  Her  child  ?" 
"  Yes,  Adam  !" 

"  Away  with  it !  I  won't  look  at  it  !  I  hate  it !  It  has 
caused  her  death  and  my  despair!  It  is  that  d — d  devil's 
child,  and  with  some  look  of  him  about  it,  too.  Away  with 
the  brat !" 

"  But,  Adam—" 

"  Away  with  it,  I  say  !     I  don't  know  it !" 
"  But,  Adam,  it  is  Maggy's  orphan  baby  !" 
"  It  caused  her  death  !    I  don't  know  the  thing!    I  won't 
own  it  1     Out  of  my  sight  with  it,  or  by — "  furiously  broke 
out  Adam  Hawk. 

Peggy,  frightened  and  distressed  by  the  screaming  of  the 
babe,  now  wide  awake,  hurried  away  with  it. 

Morning  was  now  dawning  on  the  plains,  and  the  red 
light  of  the  coming  sun  was  reflected  on  the  snow  when  Peggy 
opened  all  her  windows,  and  quietly  set  about  preparing 
breakfast,  as  though  nothing  had  occurred  ;  but  any  watch- 
ful observer  might  have  noticed  that  from  time  to  time  she 
would  turn  gray-pale — pause,  and  then  go  on  again. 

Bruin,  the  dwarf,  had  returned  with  one  or  two  of  the 
nearest  neighbors,  and  they  were  in  the  next  room,  pre- 
paring the  dead  girl  for  burial,  and  wondering  alike  at  the 
singular  composure  of  the  mother,  and  the  despairing 
sorrow  of  the  father — the  conduct  of  each,  upon  the  oc- 
casion, so  opposite  to  what  might  have  been  expected  irom 
either.  But  this  was  perfectly  natural  and  consistent,  had 


62  THK     TWO     SISTERS. 

they  taken  the  trouble  to  look  beneath  the  surface  of 
things. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  above  the  horizon,  and  project- 
ing the  shape  of  the  window  in  golden  colors  upon  the 
wall,  above  the  bed,  from  whence  they  had  just,  removed 
the  dead  girl  to  lay  her  out. 

A  cry  from  Adam  Hawk  brought  the  whole  house  into 
the  keeping-room  ;  and  there  stood  Adam,  with  the  appa- 
rently dead  body  of  his  wife  in  his  arms  ! 

The  bed  in  the  next  room  was  hastily  prepared  by  some 
of  the  frightened  women,  and  Peggy  Hawk  was  laid  upon  it. 

Another  hour  found  the  mother  lying  on  her  death-bed  in 
the  bed-room,  and  the  daughter  laid  out  in  the  keeping- 
room  ;  while  Adam  Hawk,  stern  and  harsh  to  his  best 
beloved  ones  while  they  were  living,  gave  himself  up  to  grief 
and  remorseful  tenderness,  now  that  they  were  dead  or  dying. 

But,  reader,  we  will  leave  this  gloomy  picture,  and  turn 
to  a  brighter  and  a  happier  one,  upon  which  the  same  New- 
Year's  sun  arose. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MARY     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON. 

"  Tis  night ; — within  a  curtained  room 
Filled  to  faintness  with  perfume, 
A  lady  lies  at  point  of  doom. 
*Tis  morn  ; — a  child  hath  seen  the  light." — Day  of  Life. 

THE  night  of  the  Old  and  the  New  Year — the  night  of 
death  at  the  Grange — was  the  night  of  new  life  at  the 
Mansion.  Mary  Virginia,  the  childlike  widow  of  the 
youthful  Joseph  Washington,  deceased,  and  the  daughter- 


MARY      VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.          53 

in-la\v  of  the  distinguished  Judge  Washington,  was  brought 
to  bed  of  her  first  and  only  child.  Long  had  the  young 
creature  suffered  in  silence,  rather  than  disturb  the  rest  of 
the  family  domestics,  whose  old-fashioned  regularity  had 
sent  them  to  bed,  as  usual,  at  a  very  early  hour ;  and  not 
until  amid  pain  and  terror  she  had  partly  lost  her  self-com- 
mand, did  she  pull  the  bell-rope,  ringing  a  peal  that  pres- 
ently brought  her  nurse  from  the  next  room — the  young 
lady's  dressing-room — where  a  cot  had  been  placed  for  her 
temporary  accommodation.  This  matron  was  no  Mrs 
Gamp,  but  one  of  those  skillful,  neat-handed,  kind-hearted, 
cheerful  and  comfortable  old  ladies,  who  are  not  only  a 
great  consolation,  but  a  real  luxury  in  illness.  The  great 
experience  of  Mrs.  Comford  convinced  her  at  a  glance 
that  this  was  no  false  alarm  ;  that  sleep  or  no  sleep,  the 
household  would  have  to  be  aroused ;  and  tempest  or  no 
tempest,  Prince  William  or  the  overseer  would  have  to 
saddle  Snow-Storm,  and  go  for  Dr.  McWalters. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  awakened  you,  nurse,  for  now 
I  am  better — wr.ll,  indeed — but  ju.st  now — you  have  no 
idea  how  extremely  ill  I  was  !" 

"  Haven't  I,  my  dear  ?"  said  Mrs.  Comford,  in  a  tone 
of  gentle,  compassionate  irony. 

"  Excuse  my  disturbing  you,  dear  Mrs.  Comford,  and  go 
to  bed  again.  I  will  not  be  foolish  again.  I  am  well  now 
—No  1  I  am  ill  !» 

And  so  indeed  she  was. 

Mrs.  Camford  rang  the  bell  with  violence  to  rouse  up 
the  servants,  and  returned  to  the  side  of  her  patient,  who 
was  again  enjoying  a  temporary  respite  from  her  agony. 

"  Can  you  not  manage  by  yourself,  nurse  ?  It  is  such  a 
pity  to  wake  them  up,  poor  creatures ;  they  have  been  at 
work  all  day.  Say,  can  you  not  manage  by  yourself?" 

"  My   dear  child,  yes !     I    have    managed   hundreds  of 


54  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

cases  all  9.1one  by  ray  own  self,  without  assistance,  a:id  I 
would  undertake  yours,  also,  if  you  were  any  poor  man's 
wife  or  daughter;  for  raly  it  is  a  simple  matter  enough, 
and  nothing  to  frighten  you,  for  it  is  as  natrel  for  people 
to  be  born  as  it  is  for  them  to  die,  you  know,  and  seldom 
requires  any  more  assistance  from  the  doctors  for  the  one 
than  for  the  other;  but  notions  are  notions,  and  gentry 
think  they  must  have  physicians  at  such  times." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,  nurse." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  but  you  are  Judge  Washington's  daugh- 
ter-in-law, and  the  babe  about  to  come  into  the  world  is 
the  only  heir  or  heiress  of  his  own  line  he  will  erer  have ; 
therefore  it  is  important  that  every  thing  should  go  exactly 
right ;  and  if  I  should  undertake  this  affair  without  a  doc- 
tor, and  the  baby  should  happen  to  be  too  red  in  the  face, 
or  not  red  enough,  or  if  it  should  scream  too  loud,  or  not 
loud  enough,  it  would  all  be  laid  on  the  nurse's  want  of 
skill.  I  have  heard  them  talk,  my  dear  young  lady,  before 
this — the  nurse  is  the  doctor's  scape-goat — " 

The  coming  agony  of  her  patient  again  cut  shoiit  her 
speech,  and  just  as  this  fit  was  over,  a  rap  at  the  door  was 
heard,  and  when  it  was  opened,  a  gentleman,  past  middle 
age,  of  majestic  form  and  benign  countenance,  dressed  in 
black,  appeared  within  it. 

"Mary  ?"  inquired  he  of  Mrs.  Comford. 

"  Yes.  She  is  ill,  Judge.  You  had  best  at  once  send 
for  the  doctor." 

"Father!  dear  father  !"  said  the  gentle  voice  from  the 
bed. 

"What,  my  daughter?" 

"  Come  to  me,  please  sir." 

Tl^  gentleman  advanced  to  the  bedside  and  bent  over 
her.  She  raised  her  arms,  placed  them  around  his  neck, 
and  said, 


MAKY     VIKG1NIA     WASHINGTON.         55 

"  Kiss  me,  father,  and  bless  me ;  then  I  shall  not  be 
afraid." 

"  God  bless  thee,  good,  beloved  Mary.," 

"Now  go  to  bed  again,  dearest  father,  please  sir.'' 

"  Leaving  you  ill.     No,  my  Mary." 

"  But  I  am  not  ill  now,  and  if  I  were  very,  very  bad, 
then  I  would  send  for  you  to  lift  up  my  hands  to  God — as 
you  have  always  done  through  all  my  trials,  when  my  faith 
has  fainted.  Go  now,  please  sir,  go  to  rest." 

Judge  Washington  went,  but  it  was  to  dispatch  hiss  con- 
fidential servant,  "Prince  William,"  to  the  overseer,  and 
having  done  so,  entered  his  daughter's  dressing-room  by 
another  door,  and  set  himself  down,  covering  his  brow  with 
his  hand,  to  await  the  issue  of  her  illness.  Here  the  over- 
seer found  him,  and  was  sent  for  the  family  physician.  And 
here,  as  the  hours  went  by,  from  time  to  time  stealthily 
entered  the  doctor  or  the  nurse,  with  bulletins  from  the  sick 
chamber  of  the  young  lady. 

Once  when  life  and  death  seemed  struggling  desperately 
for  the  victory,  Judge  Washington  could  no  longer  sit  still 
and  hear  the  agonizing  cries  of  the  sufferer,  but  rising,  passed 
at  once  into  her  chamber  and  to  the  side  of  her  bed. 

"  Mary  !  my  Mary !  call  on  God  and  be  a  woman  !"  be 
said,  taking  her  hands.  His  voice  and  touch  possessed  a 
mesmeric  power  over  her  excited  nerves — she  grew  calm 
and  strong,  and  murmured, 

"Oh,  thank  you,  father!  I  feel  safe  with  you  in  the 
room." 

"  I  will  not  leave  it  again,  ray  Mary.  I  will  be  near  at 
hand,"  and  kissing  her  pallid  brow,  damp  with  a  cold  sweat, 
he  retired  from  the  couch. 

In  the  mean  time  the  storm  raged  violently  and  shook  the 
windows. 

And  the  household  was  in  a  state  of  confusion,  only  pro- 


56  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

duced  by  such  events.  In  her  department  the  cook  was 
superintending  the  preparation  of  a  plentiful  and  luxu- 
riant breakfast,  which  she  modestly  called  "  getting  a 
cup  of  coffee  for  doctor,"  which  was  to  be  served  when 
all  was  over  above  stairs — or,  when  he  had  a  chance  to 
take  it. 

In  the  linen-room  Mrs.  Washington's  dressing-maid,  a 
very  pretty  mulatto  girl,  was  sitting  down  with  her  red 
apron  flung  over  her  head,  crying  bitterly,  for  this  excellent 
reason  :  Christmas  and  New  Year  is  the  great  praising  time 
among  the  negroes  on  the  Southern  plantations,  and  the 
very  next  night,  of  all  the  nights  in  the  year,  New- Year's 
night,  pretty  Coral  Pepper,  Miss  Mary's  own  waiting-maid, 
was  to  be  married  to  Prince  William  Henry,  Judge  Wash- 
ington's body  servant,  (the  reader  will  please  to  understand 
that  "  Prince"  was  a  name  given  Mr.  Henry  by  his  sponsors 
in  baptism  and  no  titular  dignity,)  and  Miss  Mary  had 
promised  them  a  wedding — and  now  all  this  was  to  be 
deferred — perhaps  till  next  New  Year — perhnps  forever — 
who  could  tell — delays  were  dangerous — and  who  shall 
place  their  trust  in  princes? — therefore  pretty  Coral  Pepper, 
with  her  red  apron  thrown  over  her  head,  wept  in  the  linen - 
room,  while  her  mother,  Poll  Pepper,  the  housekeeper, 
bustled  from  kitchen  to  pantry,  and  pantry  to  kitchen — from 
the  sick  chamber  to  the  linen-room,  and  from  thence  to  the 
laundry — hurrying  and  worrying  everybody  out  of  their 
wits  and  into  chaos.  At  the  last-mentioned  apartment  she 
stumbled  upon  Coral. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  you  lazy  huzzy,  when  the 
whole  enduring  house  is  in  a  'fusion  from  top  to  bottom, 
and  your  dear  young  mistess  at  the  pint  of  death — and 
young  marse  little  worse  ?" 

Polly  was,  in  fact,  about  the  same  age  as  her  master,  but 
from  the  time  she  learned  to  lisp,  she  had  been  taught  by 


MARY     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.         57 

her  parents  to  call  him  "  Young  Marse"  in  contradistinction 
to  "  Ole  Marse,"  his  father,  who  bore  the  name  of  Joseph. 
And  the  old  man  died,  and  his  son,  in  his  time,  was  a  father 
— but  he  still  continued  to  be  young  Marse  to  the  whole 
plantation,  while  the  newcomer  was  dubbed  "Marse  Joe;" 
and  now  that  Judge  Washington  was  in  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  State  one  of  its  most  distinguished  men,  and  now  that 
it  had  conferred  upon  him  the  highest  dignities  in  its  gift, 
and  now  that  his  hair  was  turning  white,  and  he  was  about 
to  be  a  grandfather — to  the  people  of  his  plantation  who 
had  grown  up  and  were  growing  old  with  him,  he  was  only 
"  Young  Marse"  still. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  Ain't  yon  ashamed  of  your- 
self ?  Little  do  you  care  for  your  young  mistress  !" 

"  Little  my  young  mistess  cares  for  me  !"  sobbed  Coral. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  I'm  sure  nobody  can  be  kinder 
than  Miss  Mary  Ginny.  What  in  the  yeth  are  you  cryin' 
bout  ?  Who's  been  sayin'  anythin'  to  you  ?  Ef  it  wur 
Miss  Mary,  I  know  'fore  hand  you  'served  it.  What's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  Tell  me  what's 
the  matter  of  you  this  minnit!" 

»  It's — it's — it's— too  bad  !" 

"  WhoP  s  too  bad  ?     Will  the  gal  speak  ?" 

"  It's — it's — it's,"  sobbed  Coral. 

"  What?" 

"  It's  nothin'  'tall,  but  Miss  Mary's  rotten,  iufuunnelly 
contrairiuess  !" 

"  Look  here,  Corralline,  don't  let  me  hear  you  swear 
again  !  That's  not  the  sample  I  sets  you  !  No  more  ain't 
it  the  sample  your  blessed  satanic  young  mistess  sets.  Who 
ever  heern  an  oath  from  the  lips  of  that  young  saint,  or 
even  yonng  marse,  as  much  as  he  has  to  try  him  !  There, 
now,  tell  me  what  is  ailing  of  you,  and  talk  fast,  too,  for 
I'm  in  a  hurry  !" 


68  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Well,  then  —  then  —  then  —  I  say  it's  nothing  bat 
Mary's—" 

"Don't  swear!" 

"  I  ain't  a-g\virie  to — spitefulness  /" 

"  What  is  1" 

"  To  go  and  get  ill  the  very  night  afore — night  afore — 
night  afore — " 

"Well!" 

"  Night  afore  me  and  Prince  was  a  goin'  to  be  what-you- 
call-umrned !" 

"The  saints  alive  I  as  if  she  could  help  it — the  satanio 
angel  1  Get  up,  gal.  You  needn't  be  in  a  hurry  to  borrow 
trouble  by  getting  married.  It'll  come  soon  'nough.  Get 
up  an'  carry  some  hot  water  up  in  your  mistess's  room.  I  a 
do  it  myself,  but  I'm  tired,  an'  'deed  I'm  gettin'  older  an' 
older  every  day  of  my  life.  Fac'  truffe  I'm  tellin'  of  you, 
chile.  I  am,  indeed,  though  you  don't  'pear  to  think 
so." 

Coral  wiped  her  eyes,  and  went  out  to  do  her  mother's 
bidding. 

"  Now  listen  !"  called  Polly  after  her.  "  Arter  you've 
done  that,  go  right  trait  down  in  kitchen  and  grind.  Every- 
thing down  der  is  turned  upside  down,  and  every  singly 
thin'  in  a  'fusion.  Make  haste." 

The  storm  of  wind,  snow,  and  sleet  that  had  been  furi- 
ously raging  all  night,  had  exhausted  its  power ;  the  clouds 
had  rolled  away,  the  sky  had  cleared,  and  the  full  moon  was 
shining  gloriously  bright,  when  the  nurse  entered  the  dress- 
ing-room into  which  Judge  Washington  had  then  returned, 
and  held  before  him  the  new-born  babe,  saying,  respect- 
fully : 

"Bless  your  granddaughter,  sir." 

He  took  the  child  in  his  arms  and  blessed  it ;   entered 


MARY     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.          69 

the  chamber  of  the  youthful  mother,  kissed  her  pale  brow, 
and  retired  with  the  physician. 

It  was  now  near  the  dawn  of  day.  The  room  was  dark- 
ened and  silent,  and  at  the  head^  of  the  bed,  in  a  deep  arm- 
chair, sat  Mrs.  Comford  with  the  babe  on  her  lap.  Nurse 
and  child  were  both  watched  by  a  pair  of  beautiful,  wide 
open  eyes  from  the  bed. 

"  Lay  her  here  by  my  side  and  go  to  bed,  nurse," 
Baid  the  gentle  voice,  whose  silvery,  clear  tones  were  ever 
full  of  benevolence  and  compassion ;  "  do  go  to  bed, 
nurse." 

"  And  leave  you,  my  dear  young  lady  ? — that  would 
never  do." 

"  But  you  have  not  slept  all  night." 

"I  am  not  sleepy,  madam." 

"But  you  must  be  quite  wearied  out." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  quite  fresh." 

"There  is  breakfast  prepared  down-stairs  for  the  doctor; 
go  down  and  get  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"  I  do  not  need  it  indeed,  my  dear ;  besides,  they  will 
bring  it  up  here  to  me  soon.  But  you  must  not  talk,  my 
dear,  you  must  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  sleep." 

"  You  do  not  ?  You  have  some  uneasiness — what  is  it  ? 
Do  not,  my  dear  child,  be  so  unwilling  to  give  a  little 
trouble,  which  is  no  trouble  at  all.  You  may  do  yourself 
harm  by  it.  Tell  me  where  you  feel  bad,  and  let  me  do 
something  for  you." 

"I  do  not  feel  badly,  I  feel  very  well ;  I  am  enjoying  t 
delicious  repose." 

"Very  well,  then,  go  to  sleep,  my  dear." 

"But  I  cannot." 

"Then  shut  your  eyes  and  lie  still." 


60  T  Li  E     TWO     SISTERS. 

"Nurse,  I  cannot  sleep,  indeed,  or  even  lie  still,  and 
know  you,  at  your  time  of  life,  sitting  there  awake  and 
watching.  Lay  my  little  daughter  —  how  sweetly  that 
sounds  to  me,  nurse — lay  ray  little  daughter  by  my  side, 
and  do  you  go  and  lie  down  on  your  cot  in  my  dressing- 
room,  and  then  I  will  try  to  sleep  ;  and  if  I  cannot,  at  least 
I  shall  rest  delightfully." 

Mrs.  Comford  thought  it  best  to  lay  the  child  upon  the 
bed,  and  prepare  to  obey  her. 

"  Tell  me,  now,  is  there  nothing  in  the  world  I  can  do 
for  you,  honey,  before  I  go  ?" 

"  Nothing,  I  thank  you,  nurse." 

"  Yes,  but  indeed  I  do  not  like  to  go  and  leave  you  so ; 
is  there  nothing — " 

"  Well,  then,  dear  Mrs.  Comford,  yes,  there  is  a  little 
thing  I  want  done.  Festoon  the  curtains  at  the  foot  of  my 
bed,  and  draw  aside  those  of  my  dawn  window." 

"  Your  what,  my  dear  child  ?" 

*>   "  My  dawn  window,  nurse,  the  bay-window  at  the  foot 
of  my  bed." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  what  is  that  for,  child  ?" 

"  Every  morning,  nurse,  since  I  first  occupied  this  room, 
after  God  called  Joseph  to  Heaven,  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  wake  early,  and,  lying  here,  watch  through  that 
large  bay-window  opposite  the  foot  of  my  bed  the  first  faint 
dawn  of  day  on  the  Plains — to  watch  it  grow  lighter  and 
brighter,  until  the  glorious  sun  himself  should  arise,  and 
flood  the  whole  earth  and  sky  with  glory.  Any  one  would 
think  the  prospect  from  that  window  a  very  monotonous 
and  uninteresting  one — nothing  but  level  plains  and  the 
sky — but  as  I  have  lain  here  I  have  marked  infinite  and 
beautiful  varieties.  I  have  seen  the  day  dawn  cloudless — a 
clear  sheet  of  transparent  crimson,  burning  red  at  the  hori- 
zon, and  fading  off  to  the  pale,  blue  zenith.  I  have  seen  it 


M  A  K  Y     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.          b'  I 

dawn  behind  a  range  of  cloud-mountains,  whose  summits 
the  hidden  sun  would  gild  and  tint  with  a  thousand  brilliant 
rainbow  hues.  I  have  seen  it  dawn  upon  an  overcast  and 
leaden  sky,  and  even  then  thought  the  soft  stealing  of  mere 
light  upon  darkness  inexpressibly. beautiful  ;  and  I  have  seen 
day  dawn  upon  every  variety  of  ground  upon  the  plains — 
upon  the  soft,  bright,  green  verdure  of  spring  and  early 
summer,  upon  the  bronzed  and  burnished  grass  of  autumn, 
and  upon  the  snow-clad  fields  of  winter.  Oh,  yes,  there  is 
infinite  and  beautiful  variety  even  in  that  apparently  monoto- 
nous scene.  Sunrise  is  a  glorious  sight — a  sublime  sight, 
and  excites  the  highest  admiration  ;  but  the  dawn  of  day  is 
beautiful  and  lovely,  and  touches  my  heart.  I  love  the 
dawn  of  day." 

Mary  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  more  to  herself  than  to 
her  attendant,  who,  however,  said, 

"  But  when  it  gets  light,  the  sun,  you  know,  will  hurt  your 
eyes,  my  dear  1" 

"When  it  gets  light,  nurse,  if  it  should  hurt  them,  I  will 
cover  my  eyes  till  you  come." 

Mrs.  Comford,  sorely  against  her  will,  festooned  the  bed 
curtains,  drew  back  the  window  curtains,  and  left  her  pa- 
tient watching  for  the  dawn. 

There  was  a  religious  sentiment  connected  with  the  habit 
in  her  mind.  It  was  immediately  after  the  death  of  hor 
young  husband,  that  her  father-in-law,  with  thoughtful  ana 
tender  feeling,  had  transferred  Mary  from  the  apartments 
that  herself  and  Captain  Washington  had  occupied,  to 
these  rooms  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  house.  The  night 
she  was  removed  was  that  of  the  day  of  her  husband's 
funeral.  It  was  a  cold  and  stormy  night,  and  she  had  lain, 
awake  weeping  all  night,  while  the  wind  sent  the  rain  against 
the  large  window  opposite  the  foot  of  her  bed.  At  length 
she  prayed,  and  was  comforted,  and  fell  asleep,  and  when 


62  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

she  awoke  again  the  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  window  was 
black  with  the  dense  darkness  of  the  hour ;  but  as  she  lay 
there,  struggling  against  the  temptation  of  unbelief  and 
Despair,  and  trying,  by  faith,  to  follow  her  loved  and  lost 
into  the  Heaven  to  which  they  had  gone,  and  repeating 
again,  with  her  heart,  and  not  her  tongue,  "  Lord,  I  believe  ! 
help  Thou  my  unbelief  1"  the  dense  blackness  against  the 
window  grew  thinner  and  more  transparent,  but  so  faintly 
so,  as  scarcely  to  attract  her  notice,  for  she  closed  her  eyes, 
whose  pupils  ached  at  their  great  dilation  in  the  darkness. 
In  a  minute  they  were  rested  and  opened  again,  and  now  it 
was  certainly  less  dark,  and  she  knew  that  day  was  dawning. 
Perhaps  she  had  really  never  seen  the  day  dawn  before. 
Perhaps  she  had  always  slept  in  curtained  chambers,  or 
with  the  head  of  her  bed  against  the  light.  At  all  events, 
it  is  certain  that  she  had  never  noticed  the  dawn  of  day 
before — and  now  she  watched  it  with  peculiar  and  profound 
interest.  As  the  dark,  tempestuous  night  had  associated 
itself  with  ideas  of  death  and  the  grave, — with  the  darken- 
ing of  her  sonl  with  clouds  of  momentary  unbelief  and 
despair — so  the  faint,  soft,  clear  dawn  now  stealing  on  the 
darkness,  associated  itself  with  the  peace  that  fell  with 
prayer  upon  her  troubled  soul — with  the  hope  that  came 
by  faith  to  her  despairing  soul — with  the  day  of  resurrection 
breaking  upon  the  night  of  death — and  Mary  folded  her 
hands  devoutly,  and  raised  her  heart  to  God,  while  the 
morning  grew  brighter  on  the  earth,  and  faith  grew  brighter 
in  her  spirit.'  From  that  time  Mary  slept  at  night,  but 
woke  at  day-break,  to  offer  up  her  morning  worship  before 
her  dawn  window. 

And  now  Mary  folded  her  hands  together  and  prayed  in 
sight  of  her  dawn  window.  Her  heart  was  swelling  with 
its  flood  of  gratitude  and  needed  to  pour  itself  out  in 
thanksgiving.  So  Mary  gave  thanks  for  her  living  child, 


MARY     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.          63 

and  prayed  for  wisdom  to  bring  her  up  aright.  While  she 
lay  there,  she  heard — first,  Mrs.  Comford  breathing  deeply 
and  regularly  in  the  next  room,  and  knew  by  that,  that  she 
slept — next,  a  light  pitpatting  down  the  stairs  leading  from 
the  third  story,  a  soft  tread  near  her  chamber-door ;  and 
then  Mary  rose  upon  her  elbow  and  looked  eagerly,  and 
with  something  of  a  remorseful  tenderness  in  her  gentle 
face — just  as  a  child's  meek  voice  was  heard  without  to  say, 

"Mamma — dear  mamma,  may  I  come  in  ?" 

"Yes,  Josey.     Come  in,  darling." 

And  the  door  was  softly  pushed  open,  as  softly  closed 
again,  and  a  little  delicate,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  child,  of 
some  six  or  seven  years  old,  came  up  quietly  to  the  bed. 

This  was  Mary  Washington's  adopted  child — and  this 
was  his  short  and  simple  story.  Five  years  before,  in  Mary's 
happy  childhood,  she  had  gone  to  Alexandria  with  her 
father,  Colonel  Carey.  While  staying  there  at  the  principal 
hotel,  their  attention  was  one  morning  attracted  to  a  crowd 
gathering  in  the  street  before  the  door.  Colonel  Carey 
went  down  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  disturbance,  and 
discovered  that  it  was  occasioned  by  a  beggar-woman  having 
fallen  dead  in  the  street — and  by  a  young  babe  that  had 
rolled  from  her  arms.  Much  pity  was  felt  and  expressed. 
The  child  was  carried  into  the  house  and  put  in  charge  of 
one  of  the  under  housemaids,  and  the  coroner  summoned 
to  set  upon  the  dead  body  of  the  mother.  Every  possible 
investigation  Was  made,  but  nothing  was  discovered  of  the 
woman,  or  of  any  friends  or  acquaintances  she  might  have 
had.  The  woman  was  finally  buried  at  the  expense  of  the 
Corporation,  and  the  child  destined  to  the  Poor  House. 
Now  Mary  Carey  had  wept  very  much  over  the  sad  fate  of 
the  pauper  mother  and  the  destitute  babe,  and  when  she 
heard  it  was  to  be  sent  to  the  Poor  House,  she  threw  her 
arms  around  her  father's  neck,  imploring  him  to  let  tier 


Gi  THE     TWO     SISTKRS. 

lake  it.  Her  father  was  surprised — objected  to  the  plan  — 
reasoned  with  his  little  girl ;  but  her  sympathies  were 
stronger  than  his  logic,  and  finally,  as  he  could  not  refuse 
his  motherless  daughter  any  thing  that  was  not  wrong,  he 
gave  his  consent,  to  her  adoption  of  the  orphan ;  and  Mary 
immediately  took  possession  of  her  prize — made  herself  very 
happy  in  providing  comfortably  for  its  immediate  wants, 
and  finally  carried  it  with  her  to  her  country  home.  She 
called  him  Joseph,  after  her  youthful  idolatry  and  betrothed 
Joseph  Washington  ;  and  from  that  hour  rhe  infant  shared 
Mary's  home  and  bed  until  she  was  married,  and  then  the 
infant  of  four  years  old  was  taken  to  Prospect  Hall. 

Neither  Captain  Washington  nor  Judge  Washington  had 
raised  the  slightest  objection  to  "  Mary's  pet  child."  On 
the  contrary,  both  were  ever  happy  in  the  opportunity  of 
proving  their  affection  for  her  in  any  extraordinary  manner. 
Captain  Washington,  in  the  tenderness  and  generosity  of 
his  noble  heart,  had  volunteered  a  promise  to  his  bride,  that 
as  the  boy  should  be  free  from  her  leading  strings,  he  would 
charge  himself  with  his  education,  and  final  establishment 
in  life.  Already  in  his  young  enthusiasm  and  impetuosity, 
he  had  fixed  upon  his  protege's  future  profession — the  cap- 
tain's own  of  course — and  announced  that  as  soon  as  the 
boy  should  attain  the  proper  age,  he  should  enter  as  a  cadet 
uhe  military  academy  of  West  Point.  And  this  was  pro- 
mulgated by  Coral  through  the  household. 

One  among  their  number,  however,  shook  his  head  and 
objected — that  was  Bruin,  the  Deformed,  a  nondescript  in 
parson  and  in  office — the  son  of  some  former  long-deceased 
overseer,  who  had  grown  up  an  old  man  about  the  planta- 
tion— now  haunting  his  birth-place,  Blackthorn  Grange — 
now  hovering  about  the  Mansion-House.  Never  was  a 
great  and  beautiful  soul  imprisoned  in  so  dwarfed  and  do- 
formed  a  body.  Little  opportunity  of  mental  or  moral  im- 


MARY      V  I  K  (i  I  N  1  A     \V  A  S  II  I  .\  G  T  O  X .          tJ5 

provement  had  Bruin  found — for  few  books  came  in  his  way, 
end  few  people  talked  with  him ;  and  out  of  Judge  Wash- 
ington's family  little  kindness  was  shown  him  ;  nevertheless, 
his  brain  had  thriven  upon  the  very  crumbs  of  knowledge 
that  fell  from  the  rich  man's  intellectual  table,  and  his  heart 
had  fed  upon  the  few  sympathetic  words  and  beneficial  acts 
'hat  blessed  him. 

But  more  of  that  anon.  It  was  Bruin  the  Dwarf,  then, 
that  objected  to  the  proposed  destination  of  the  child. 

•'  Xo,"  said  Bruin,  whose  favorite  study  was  phrenology. 
"  No,"  he  repeated,  taking  the  child  upon  his  knee,  and 
running  his  long  blackish  fingers  through  the  infant's  sunny 
hair,  and  feeling  his  "  bumps  ;"  "  no,  that  would  never  do  ; 
his  whole  physical,  intellectual,  and  moral  organization, 
would  be  a  living  epigram  upon  bis  profession  !  the  infant 
is  too  greatly,  too  wonderfully  endowed  for  that." 

"  Indeed,  then  !"  exclaimed  the  scandalized  Coral,  "  in- 
deed, then,  pray  is  not  Captain  Washington  a  soldier  !" 

"  Captain  Washington,"  said  the  dwarf,  "got  his  commis- 
sion '  in  times  that  tried  men's  souls,'  as  they  say — and  he 
has  reflected  honor  upon  his  profession.  Captain  Wash- 
ington is  the  hero  of  the  present,  worthy  almost  even  of  his 
illustrious  namesake  and  relative  ;  but  this  infant,  mark  you, 
is  the  man  of  the  future.  God  ;"  said  the  dwarf,  still  run- 
ning his  fingers  through  the  golden  curls,  turning  them  back 
from  the  snowy  brow,  and  gazing  into  the  clear,  deep  blue 
eyes — "  God,  what  a  physiognomy — what  a  phrenology  is 
his !" 

"What  a  what!"  asked  Coral. 

But  the  dwarf  went  on  as  if  talking  to  himself.  "  What 
intellectual  development !  what  immense  Comparison  and 
Causality  !  what  enormous  Ideality  and  Sublimity  !  what 
towering  Reverence,  larger  even  than  our  Mary's  I  And 
Conscientiousness  !  My  God,  this  boy  would  go  to  perdi- 


6(>  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

tion  for  the  right,  rather  than  purchase  Heaven  by  the 
wrong,  could  such  an  alternative  possibly  offer  1  What 
social  affection,  too  !  What  love  of  women  and  of  children  ! 
What  Adhesiveness.  But  he  has  not  Self-esteem  enough  ; 
no — nor  Firmness,  nor  Combaiiveuess,  nor  Destructiveuess 
enough  !  Oh,  my  child,  anointed  for  sorrow,"  continued  the 
dwarf,  gazing  sadly  in  the  eyes  of  the  wondering  boy.  "  The 
service  of  God  and  humanity — that  is  your  mission,  my  boy." 

"  No,  he  will  never  make  a  soldier.  Too  much  Benevo- 
lence— too  much  Reverence — too  little  Combativeness  and 
Destructiveness — child  anointed  for  suffering.  Not  much 
attacktive  or  even  defensive  courage,  but  much  passive 
courage,  endurance,  fortitude,  or  whatever  else  the  martyr 
spirit  be  called.  No,  never  will  he  make  a  soldier,  othei 
than  a  'soldier  of  the  Cross,'"  decided  the  dwarf. 

Josey  wept  bitterly  at  first,  being  separated  from  his 
"little  mother's"  sleeping  apartment,  and  Mary,  to  console 
him,  had  selected  a  beautiful  little  room  in  the  third  story, 
and  given  it  to  him  as  his  own.  She  had  furnished  and 
adorned  this  room  with  a  view  to  its  effect  upon  the  infant's 
mind  and  heart.  He  had  a  small  French  bedstead,  of  rose- 
wood, a  little  chest  of  drawers,  a  little  rocking-chair,  and 
several  other  little  chairs,  a  little  wash-stand  and  table ;  and 
lastly,  a  little  book-case,  stored  with  children's  books.  Of 
this  last  he  was  permitted  to  keep  the  key.  Yery  few  of  the 
books  could  he  tell,  except  by  the  engravings,  but  he  could 
at  any  time  select  the  book  he  wished,  and  little  mother 
would  read  it  to  him  She  adorned  the  walls  with  pictures 
of  the  holy  family — the  Child  in  the  Temple,  and  others,  all 
of  a  religious  or  an  affectionate  nature.  And  she  told  him 
Bible  stories  about  them.  The  Holy  Family,  representing 
a  central  group  of  Mary,  Joseph,  and  the  infant  Jesus, 
visited  by  Eli,  Elizabeth,  and  John  the  Baptist,  as  a  boy 
rf  two  years  old,  standing,  was  the  child's  especial  delight. 


MARY      VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.          67 

"Little  mother,"  he  said  one  day,  "you  are  like  Mary; 
grandpa  (as  he  called  Judge  Washington)  is  like  Joseph  ; 
and  I " 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  darling,  that  is  very  irreverent.  You 
must  try  all  your  life  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  Di- 
vine Infant." 

"/am  like  the  little  boy  standing  there,  who  came  before 
Him,  but  was  preferred  after  him,  and  was  not  worthy  to 
tie  his  shoes,  but  who  loved  him  better  than  himself.  Lit- 
tle mother,  am  I  like  Him  ?" 

"  No,  little  boy ;  but  you  may,  by  his  grace,  become  like 
him." 

After  the  widowhood  of  Mary  "Washington,  she  had 
found  her  best  solace  in  the  education  and  care  of  this 
lovely  boy.  He  was  still  left  ia  his  little  room  in  the  third 
story ;  but  much  of  her  time  not  passed  in  other  labors  of 
love,  was  spent  by  Mary  there.  And  now  his  education 
progressed  rapidly.  He  had  learned  to  read  all  the  books 
in  his  little  book-case,  and  she  had  sent  to  Alexandria  for 
more.  Among  these  came  "  The  Exiles  of  Siberia,"  and 
"Paul  and  Virginia."  They  read  the  "Exiles"  first,  and 
by  the  story  of  Elizabeth's  heroism  and  devotion,  the  heart 
and  imagination  of  the  boy  was  fired,  and  he  said  fervently : 

"  Oh,  mamma,  how  my  heart  does  beat !  I  want  to  do 
something  like  that  for  you  1" 

"  We  can  prove  our  love  by  bearing,  as  well  as  by  doing, 
little  boy,  and  you  will  have  the  opportunity." 

"Oh,  mamma!  when?" 

"  Soon,  perhaps,  Josey." 

But  that  was  nothing  to  his  excitement  when  reading 
"  Paul  and  Virginia."  After  it  was  done,  and  all  his  sym- 
pathetic tears  were  shed,  he  fell  into  profound  thought — 
thought  was  ever  born  of  feeling  with  him — and  at  last  ha 
•aid: 


6i  THE      TWO      SISTERS 

"  If  I  had  been  Paul  I  would  not  have  died  and  left  iny 
poor  mother.  I  think  it  was  selfish  in  Paul  to  follow  Vir- 
ginia to  Heaven,  and  leave  her  mother  and  his  own  poor 
mother  on  earth.  I  would  not  have  died  if  I  had  been 
Paul." 

"  My  love,  it  often  requires  more  courage  to  live  than 
tc  die." 

"  I  know  it,  sweet  mother,  for  who  would  not  like  to  go 
to  Heaven  ?  Yes,  I  know  it,  sweet  mother,  for  you  would 
rather  go  to  Heaven  with  them  that's  gone  than  stay  here, 
if  it  wasn't  for  grandpa  and  Josey.  Mamma  !" 

"  Well,  Josey  ?" 

"What  is  it  that  makes  girls  and  women  bear  every 
thing  so  much  better  than  boys  and  men  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  think  they  do,  Josey  ?" 

"  Why,  in  all  the  books  I  read,  I  find  that  little  girls  bear 
things  best.  There  was  Elizabeth,  now,  in  the  'Exiles,' 
what  hardships  she  bore ;  and  there  was  Virginia.  See 
with  what  fortitude  she  bore  the  parting  that  Paul  sank 
under  ;  and  here  is  you,  little  mother,  when  almost  every 
one  you  loved  died,  and  grandpa  Carey  died  of  grief,  you 
kept  alive ;  and  you  said  just  now,  '  it  takes  more  courage 
to  live  than  to  die.'  " 

"  Sometimes,  my  love  ;  and  I  should  have  said — not  cour- 
age, but  fortitude.  Men  and  boys  have  more  courage  than 
women  and  girls  ;  but  women  have  more  patience  than 
men." 

"  I  think  I  love  girls  best,  little  mother ;  besides,  all  the 
angels  are  girls." 

"  Oh,  no,  love  !  none  of  them.  There  is  no  such  thing 
mentioned  in  the  Bible." 

The  child's  next  observation  was  very  childlike,  but 
neither  sublime  nor  pathetic. 

"  Well,   then,  little  mother,"  he   said,  pointing   to   the 


MART     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.         69 

picture  of  the  Annunciation,  "Gabriel  wears  loug  frocks, 
anyhow,  and  long  hair,  too ;  now  if  he  is  a  boy,  why  don't 
he  wear  trowsers  ?" 

The  question,  involving  the  problem  that  confounds  the 
philosophers  of  the  nineteenth  century,  was  too  profound 
for  the  simple  wisdom  of  Mary,  who  could  only  reply  : 

"  Oh  dear,  love,  do  not  talk  so  of  the  holy  angels ;  they 
are  neither  male  nor  female,  but  fur  above  either — angels 
of  the  Lord." 

Awed  by  her  tone,  the  child  raised  his  eyes  in  reverence 
and  fear  once  more  to  the  picture,  and  became  silent  and 
thoughtful. 

Paul  and  Virginia  became  his  favorite  book,  however, 
though  he  never  read  the  catastrophe  without  shedding 
tears ;  and  his  admiration  of  the  beauty  and  goodness,  and 
his  compassion  for  the  tragic  end  of  the  lovely  children, 
was  used  by  Mary  to  impress  upon  his  infant  mind  this 
truth  :  that  when  goodness  does  not  meet  its  deserts,  hap- 
piness in  this  world,  it  is  its  surest  guarantee  of  its  receiv- 
ing it  from  the  hands  of  God,  in  heaven.  But  most  of  all 
the  boy  loved  the  ideal  Virginia.  She  evidently  took  a 
rank  among  his  patron  saints  and  guardian  angels,  rather 
than  with  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  his  other  childish 
books. 

His  birthday  was  unknown  ;  but  his  little  mother  had 
always  observed  the  anniversary  of  her  adoption  of  him,  as 
a  birthday.  This  was  the  first  of  July,  and  upon  this  day 
she  always  made  a  little  feast  for  him  ;  and  gave  a  feast  to 
ull  the  little  colored  children.  The  first  birthday  they  had 
both  passed  at  Prospect  Hall  was  so  very  sad  a  one — so 
soon  after  her  grievous  bereavement — that  Mary  could  not 
make  a  feast ;  but  she  asked  Josey  what  she  should  give 
him. 

"On  mamma!  give  me  a  little  sister  named  Virginia  1" 
4 


70  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Mary  smiled  very  sadly  at  this  childish  request ;  hut  will 
ing  to  gratify  her  little  boy  to  the  utmost  of  her  ability, 
she  sent  to  Alexandria  and  purchased  a  beautiful  oil  painting 
of  the  infancy  of  Paul  and  Virginia  that  she  remembered 
to  have  seen  there.  This,  in  default  of  the  real  Virginia, 
delighted  Josey  very  much.  It  was  hung  up  in  his  room. 

Convinced  of  the  great  influence  of  early  reading,  and 
even  early  pictures,  upon  the  character  of  a  child,  she 
sought  by  such  books  and  prints  as  those  of  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia, The  Exiles  of  Siberia,  as  well  as  by  her  own  precept 
and  example,  to  foster  every  gentle  household  affection, 
every  high  heroic  virtue.  By  stories  of  the  Saviour,  she 
cultivated  his  profound  religious  sentiments.  By  all  that  is 
beautiful,  lovely,  or  grand  and  awful  in  nature — by  flowers, 
sunrise,  mountains,  storms — by  all  the  best  emotions  of  his 
own  heart,  and  the  brightest  inspirations  of  his  own  mind, 
she  sought  to  raise  his  soul  to  God. 

Mary  was  passionately  fond  of  children,  as  I  said,  and 
she  had  found  sweet  comfort  in  educating  her  lovely  adopted 
child.  But  when  she  found  that  God  had  blessed  her  with 
the  prospect  of  a  child  of  her  own,  her  joy  was  profound — 
her  joy  was  profound,  but  alloyed  by  a  sorrow  and  a  tender 
remorse — a  new  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  her  husband,  and  a 
remorse  at  the  consciousness  that  now  a  dearer  child  would 
supersede  her  orphan  boy  in  her  best  affections.  This  made 
Mary  resolve  that  if  her  feelings  changed,  her  actions 
should  not.  This  made  her  redouble  her  tenderness  to 
the  child.  This  made  her  one  day  take  him  to  her  bosom 
and  shed  tears  of  compassion  over  him — tears  that  rained 
from  her  eyes  when  the  child  too  wept,  and  implored  little 
mother  to  tell  him  what  was  the  matter.  There  was  one 
beautiful  thing  between  this  mother  and  child — it  was  their 
confidence  in  and  faith  toward  each  other — so  when  Josey 
wiping  away  her  fast-falling  tears  with  his  little  apron,  and 


MARY     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.          71 

kissing  her  weeping,  begged  her  to  tell  him  what  was  the 
matter — she  pressed  him  closer  to  her  bosom,  and  said, 

"Jo'sey,  mamma  loves  you  very  dearly — she  can  never 
iove  you  any  less  ;  but  listen  to  me  now — God  is  going  to 
send  me  another  child,  a  little  baby." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  Indeed  !  I  am  so  glad  that  our  Father 
is  going  to  send  us  a  little  child.  Will  it  be  a  little  girl 
that  will  be  my  little  playmate  and  sister,  that  I  can  call 
Virginia,  and  love  and  wait  on?" 

"Perhaps  so,  love,  and  perhaps  a  little  boy.  Mamma 
don't  know." 

"  Didn't  our  Father  send  you  word  ?" 

"  No,  Josey." 

"  But  what  made  you  cry,  then,  little  mother  ?" 

"  Because  little  mother  fears  that  she  shall  love  the  little 
stranger  more  than  she  loves  her  boy,  and  that  her  Josey 
will  be  unhappy." 

"  Why,  mamma  ?"  inquired  the  child,  with  his  beautiful 
eyes  raised  to  her  face  dilated  with  wonder.  "  Why,  moth- 
er ?"  he  asked  again,  and  Mary  was  again  puzzled  by  the 
searching  question  of  a  simple  child,  and  in  acknowledging 
in  him  the  presence  of  a  nature  even  purer,  more  unselfish 
than  her  own,  felt  ashamed  of  her  former  morbid  anxiety. 
The  child,  when  his  questions  were  not  soon  answered  from 
without,  inquired  within  himself — and  now  after  falling  into 
a  short  but  deep  reverie,  he  spoke  up  : 

"  Now  I  know,  little  mother,  though  I  don't  know  how  to 
te.1  you.  But  one  thing  I'll  tell  you — two  things  I'll  tell 
you.  If  you  love  the  baby  that  God  sends  you  straight 
from  himself  better  than  me,  it  will  be  because  it  will  be  a 
gooder  child  than  I  am,  and  then  I  will  be  like  the  little 
John  in  the  Holy  Family.  I  will  stand  by  your  knee  ana 
look  at  the  baby,  and  love  it  until  I  get  good  enough  to  tie 
its  shoes." 


72  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

This  last  conversation  had  occurred  only  a  few  days  be- 
fore her  accouchement. 

It  was  this  child,  then,  who  now  advanced  to  the  bedside, 
and  by  his  mother's  permission  climbed  upon  the  bed. 

"What  brings  my  little  Josey  out  of  his  warm  nest  so 
early  this  cold  morning  ?"  inquired  Mary,  stroking  his  fair 
curls. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  have  been  awake  ever  so  long,  I  heard 
Coral  and  Pepper,  and  all  of  them,  running  about  in  the 
night,  and  it  woke  me  up ;  and  I  heard  Pepper  come  into 
the  linen-room  and  say  to  somebody  that  you  were  sick, 
and  I  got  up  and  come  down  and  stood  by  the  door  ;  and 
Coral  came  down  with  some  hot  water,  and  she  set  it  down 
and  took  me  up  and  carried  me  up  stairs  again,  and  told 
me  if  I  made  a  noise  or  got  up  again  before  morning  it 
might  kill  mamma,  who  was  very  ill.  And  then  I  laid  in 
the  bed  and  cried  all  night,  and  prayed  to  God  not  to  take 
my  mamma  to  Heaven  without  me,  too ;  and  then  1  heard 
some  one  come  in  the  linen-room  and  tumble  about  the 
things  and  laugh,  and  then  I  knew  you  were  well  again, 
because  no  one  could  laugh  while  you  were  sick  ;  and  so  I 
laid  and  waited  till  I  saw  day  dawning,  and  then  I  got  up 
and  came  down,  because  I  knew  that  mamma  would  let 
me  in." 

Mary  passed  her  arms  around  the  child,  drew  him  down 
to  her  bosom,  and  kissed  him.  Then  rising  upon  her  elbow, 
she  reached  a  shawl  from  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  drew  it 
around  him,  bidding  him  sit  there  quietly.  Lastly,  she 
lifted  her  baby  from  the  other  side,  and  laid  it  before  him, 
saying, 

"  Look,  my  little  Josey  !  God  has  sent  Virginia  at  last !'? 

"  Oh,  mamma  !"  exclaimed  the  child,  fervently  clasping 
bis  little  hands  together,  and  gazing  at  the  babe  with 


MARY     VIRGINIA     WASHINGTON.          <  3 

mingled  awe,  admiration  and  tenderness;  "oh,  mammal 
she  is  so  little  I" 

"  And  so  innocent,  and  tender,  and  helpless,  Josey  1" 

"  I  love  her  so  dearly,  mamma  !" 

"  Dear  boy  I     Kiss  me,  Josey  !'' 

He  kissed  his  "  little  mother "  again  and  again,  and 
then,  reverting  to  the  baby,  said, 

"  Is  her  name  really  Virginia,  mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  Josey,  Mary  Virginia — that  was  my  mother's 
name — it's  mine,  and  I  will  also  place  her  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Virgin  Mary." 

"  Oh,  what  a  darling  little  Virginia !  but  she  is  so  little, 
mamma  !" 

"  She  will  every  day  grow  bigger." 

"  And  be  as  pretty,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  and  as  innocent.  But  now  the  sun  is  getting 
so  bright,  and  I  promised  to  call  up  Mrs.  Comford ;  pull 
the  bell-rope  fur  mamma,  Josey." 

And  the  child  having  done  so,  soon  after  Mrs.  Comford 
entered  the  room.  The  good  woman  gently  reproved  her 
charge  for  worrying  herself  so, — sent  little  Josey  off  to 
Coral  to  be  dressed, — put  the  baby  in  the  cradle — made 
Mary  lie  down  again  to  sleep — drew  the  curtains  of  the 
"  dawn  window,"  and  having  set  the  chamber  in  pei'fect 
order,  replenished  the  fire,  and  left  the  room  to  prepare  a 
light  breakfast  for  her  patient. 


CHAPTER  III 
NEW-YEAR'S    MORNING    AT    PROSPECT    HILL. 


"  There's  not  a  maid,  nor  wearied  man  of  mine, 
But  now  this  day  shall  smile  through  all  their  earn, 
Aud  revel  it  in  transport  and  rude  harmony." — Congreot. 


VERY  grand  and  beautiful,  though  very  simple,  was  the 
"prospect"  from  the  front  vestibule  of  the  hall,  which  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  smoothly  descending  sweep  of  the 
snow-clad  hill  and  plains,  stretching  many  miles  to  Chesa- 
peake Bay,  which  formed  the  boundary  of  the  Eastern  hori- 
zon, and  whose  dark  waters  were  now  a-blaze  with  the 
splendor  of  the  risen  sun. 

Here  upon  this  morning  in  the  vestibule,  smiling,  stood 
Judge  Washington,  and  from  all  parts  of  the  plantation, 
coming  up  the  hill  in  their  gay  holiday  attire,  were  seen  his 
people — men,  women  and  children  coming  to  wish  their 
venerated  master  and  bis  family  a  Happy  Year,  and  to 
receive  from  his  hands  some  appropriate  token  of  regard. 
"  Happy  New  Year,  Judge !"  "  Happy  New  Year, 
roaster  1"  "  Happy  New  Year,  sir !  and  many  returns  of 
'em !"  sounded  now  from  all  sides,  as  the  people  came  up 
the  marble  stairs  and  crowded  around  their  master. 

But  she,  the  idolized  young  mistress,  who  had  stood  by 
his  side  a  week  before,  on  Christmas-day,  was  absent ;  and 
as  their  inquiring  glances  went  about,  and  sly  smiles  were 
exchanged — for  they  judged  the  cause  of  her  absence  by 
the  happy  expression  of  their  master's  countenance — Judge 
Washington  said — 
(74) 


NEW-YEAR'S    MORNING.  76 

"Wish  me  joy,  my  people,  upon  another  happy  ?ccasioo 
—the  birth  of  my  granddaughter  Virginia  !" 

And  then  a  shout  went  up  into  the  air.  And  the  Judge 
was  cheered.  And  the  young  mother.  And  tl.e  child. 

"But  where  is  Adam  Hawk?"  inquired  the  old  gentle- 
man. 

"We  have  not  seen  him  this  morning,  sir." 

"  He  was  disturbed  last  night.  He  has  probably  over- 
slept himself  this  morning.  You,  Prince,  must  do  his 
office  upon  this  occasion,"  said  Judge  Washington,  plac- 
ing a  heavy  purse  in  the  hand  of  his  confidential  attendant. 
"Distribute  this  among  your  fellow-servants,  and  God  bless 
you  all ! — and  stay  !  Where  is  Bruin,  my  good  Bruin  ?  I 
do  not  see  him  !" 

"We  have  not  seen  him  at  the  house  this  morning,  sir — 
'haps  he's  at  Blackthorns." 

"Prince,  send  some  one  to  bid  him  come  to  me — I  have 
Spurzheim's  Philosophy  for  him." 

"Yes,  sir!  yes!  'mediately,  sir!  Dull!  do  you  come 
here  !  Run  now  as  fast  as  you  can  go  to  Blackthorn's, 
and  'form  Bruin  that  young  marse  has  spurs  and  a  hoss  for 
him,"  said  this  deputy,  in  a  low  voice,  to  his  messenger. 

"  Now  go,  my  people,  and  enjoy  your  holiday,  and  God 
be  with  you  !"  said  the  Judge,  turning  toward  the  house. 

"  God  bless  Judge  Washington,  and  all  his  name  I" 
shouted  the  dispersing  crowd. 

Judge  Washington  turned  to  see,  bowing  low  before  him, 
hat  in  hand,  the  tall,  gaunt  figure  of  Adam  Hawk,  with  his 
gray  locks  streaming  on  the  wind. 

"Happy  New  Year,  my  good  friend  !  I  was  just  inquir- 
ing for  you,  missing  you  from  this,  my  patriarchal  gather- 
ing of  the  clans,  and  supposing  you  to  be  sleeping  off  your 
fatigue.  I  hope  you  have  not  shortened  your  morning's 
rest  upon  my  account :  for  you  look  rather  weary.  Cover, 


76  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

my  good  Adam,  cover  this  crisp  morniug.  Your  gray 
hair,  like  mine,  looks  not  so  well  romping  with  the  wind  as 
Mary's  chestnut  locks  might  look.  And  now  I  see  you 
again — indeed,  Adam,  you  look  haggard.  You  have  lost 
too  much  sleep.  Come  in  and  take  a  glass  of  egg-nog  to 
Mary's  health,  and  then  go  home  and  go  to  bed,"  said  the 
Judge. 

But  Adam  Hawk  bowed  again  more  lowly  than  before, 
and  said  : 

"You  see  before  you  a  stricken  man  this  morning, 
Judge  !  Verily  the  hand  of  God  has  fallen  heavily  upon 
me  I" 

"Adam,  old  friend,  you  speak  solemnly.  You  alarm 
me !  I  trust  no  evil  has  befallen  you  since  last  night." 

"  My  child,  sir,  who  was  lost,  is  found  again  ;  but  was 
found  in  the  snow,  and  her  corse  lies  now  at  my  house  !" 

"Adam  !     My  heaven,  Adam,  what  do  you  tell  me  ?" 

"Her  mother,  sir,  overwhelmed  by  the  shock,  is  dying." 

Judge  Washington  gazed  silently  at  the  speaker,  with  a 
countenance  stolid  with  surprise  and  compassion. 

"  That,  sir,  is  the  excuse  I  offer  for  not  being  early  at  my 
duty  this  morniug." 

"Adam  Hawk,  I  pity  you  from  the  very  bottom  of  my 
heart.  Adam,  I  am  deeply  wounded  by  your  griefs." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  that,  sir." 

"  Good  friend,  command  me.     What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Judge,  since  there  is  no  withstanding  the 
Almighty." 

"  Let  there  be  no  rebelling  then,  Adam,  against  the  Al- 
mighty ;  no  doubting  the  All-wise ;  no  murmnring  against 
the  All-merciful  :  He  wounds  to  heal.  I,  too,  Adam,  as 
you  know,  I  and  mine  have  been  smitten  to  the  dust ;  but 
we  have  been  raised  again.  Earth  has  remedies  for  almost 
everj'  other  affliction — God  only  for  those  that  come  by 


NEW-YEAR'S    MOUSING.  77 

death."  Adam  bowed  lowly,  and  remained  silent.  Judge 
Washington  continued  :  "  Resign  yourself,  Adam — not  as 
a  prisoner  to  the  sentence  of  a  judge,  but  as  a  little  child 
to  the  discipline  of  his  father." 

Again  Adam  inclined  his  head,  and  saying,  "Permit  me 
now  to  return  to  the  bedside  of  my  dying  wife,"  turned  to 
depart. 

"God  be  with  you,  Adam.  Call  on  me  for  any  service 
you  may  need.  I  will  be  down  to  see  you  in  a  few  hours." 

Adam  Hawk  departed,  and  Judge  Washington  re-en- 
tered the  mansion,  and  proceeded  to  the  bed-chamber  of  his 
daughter-in-law. 

Mary  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  supported  by  downy  white 
pillows,  and  her  sweet,  wan  face  looked  even  fairer  for  the 
soft  shade  of  the  delicate  lace  cap ;  and  beautiful,  far  more 
beautiful,  for  the  heavenly  love  and  still  joy  beaming  from 
her  countenance  upon  the  babe  sleeping  before  her.  As 
her  "  father,"  as  she  called  him,  entered  the  room,  Mary 
held  out  one  hand  to  him,  and  as  he  came  to  the  side  of 
the  bed,  she  murmured  in  low  tones,  full  of  deep  emotion, 

"  I  am  so  happy.  0  my  beloved,  ray  venerated  father  ! 
my  second,  good  father,  bless  thy  child,  and  her  child." 

"  I  do  bless  thee  every  day  I  live,  my  Mary ;  and  again 
I  bless  thee.  May  God  be  ever  in  thy  heart,  and  love  and 
truth  be  ever  on  thy  lips,  as  now,  my  Mary." 

"  I  am  so  happy.  I  am  so  grateful.  My  heart  fills  to 
breaking  with  its  wish,  its  need  to  do  God  some  good  ser- 
vice. I  am  so  happy.  I  am  so  grateful.  0,  my  father, 
what  shall  I  render  unto  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  ?" 

"  '  The  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills'  are  the  Lord's ;  the 
whole  earth  and  the  fullness  thereof  are  his ;  yea,  the  hea- 
vens and  the  majesty  thereof  are  the  Lord's,"  said  Judge 
Washington,  contemplating  the  lovely  young  mother  with 
a  B\veet  solemnity  of  brow. 


78  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  What,  then,  shall  I  render  unto  the  Lord  for  all  his 
mercies,  since  all  that  is,  is  his  of  right  ?" 

The  patriarch  bent  over  her,  and  with  a  countenance 
and  in  tones  full  of  blessing,  said, 

"My  daughter,  'Thou  shalt  LOVE  the  Lord  thy  God  with 
all  thy  heart,  and  all  thy  soul,  and  all  thy  strength.'  That 
which  we  frail  creatures — created  by  a  breath,  and  by  a 
breath  destroyed — that  which  we  beg  for  in  every  act  and 
word  and  thought,  the  Supreme  Sovereign  of  the  universe 
himself  in  his  lone  omnipotence  pleads  for — LOVE.  '  My 
son,  my  daughter,  give  me  thy  HEART.'  Mary,  above  and 
before  all  things,  raise  thy  soul  and  the  soul  of  thy  child  iu 
LOVE  to  the  Universal  Father,  and  all  good  else  will  follow 
of  itself." 

"0  !  I  do,  I  do,  and  shall ;  and  it  has  made  me  happy, 
and  will  make  me  so ;  but — a  barren  love,  0  father  !  when 
my  soul  burns  to  do  something !" 

"  'Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself:'  there  is  large 
DOING  in  that,  my  Mary." 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  Judge 
Washington  stepped  to  the  door,  and  opened  it  partly. 
Bruin,  the  deformed,  appeared,  and  said  a  few  words  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Certainly  ;  remain  below  stairs  a  few  minutes, 
Bruin,"  were  the  only  words  of  the  colloquy  that  Mary 
heard ;  and  these  were  spoken  by  the  Judge,  who,  closing 
the  door,  returned,  and  seating  himself  by  the  bed,  said, 

"Mary,  my  dear  daughter,  I  have  something  to  tell  you — 
something  that,  in  your  present  state,  perhaps,  you  should 
not  hear;  but  which  duty  nevertheless  constrains  me  to  re- 
veal. I  will  rely  upon  your  self-command  and  fortitude,  as 
well  as  upon  your  strength  of  nerve." 

"  Well,  father,  Margaret  —  it  is  about  Margaret,"  said 
Mary,  in  a  low  voice,  but  growing  very  pale 

"My  dear  Mary,  remember  yourself  now  ;  be  calm." 


NEW-YEAR    S     MORNING.  79 

"I  am,  I  am,  father.     But — Margaret!" 

"Has  passed  away  from  earth." 

Mary  sank  backward  upon  her  pillow,  pressed  both 
open  hands  to  her  brow,  remained  perfectly  still  for  a  little 
while,  and  then  uncovering  her  face,  said, 

"  The  circumstances,  father  ?" 

"  She  returned  home  last  night,  died  in  her  mother's 
arms ;  died  in  the  hope  of  a  blessed  immortality,  and 
blessing  with  her  last  breath  you  and  your  child,  my  Mary." 

"  Father,  my  nurse — her  mother  !     How  is  it  with  her  ?" 

"  Mary,  you  knew  her  state  ?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"The  slight  tenure  by  which  she  held  her  life  ?" 

"Well,  well!" 

"  She  blessed  her  dying  child,  received  her  last  breath, 
and " 

"She,  too,  died,"  said  Mary,  convulsively  clasping  her 
hands,  and  then  with  an  effort  controlling  herself  while  she 
repeated,  "  She,  too,  died  1" 

"  No,  my  Mary,  she  lives  yet ;  but  her  life  is  despaired 
of." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  nurse — my  tender  friend  !" 

"I  have  a  message  from  her  for  you,  Mary." 

"  Tell  it  to  me,  father ;  the  message  of  the  dying " 

"  Listen  then,  Mary  ;  Margaret  left  a  babe  of  four  weeks 
old." 

"  A  babe  1  oh,  poor,  poor  things  !  Oh,  poor,  poor  things  I 
Mother  and  babe  !  How  it  must  have  tortured  the  soul  of 
Margaret  to  leave  her  babe  behind  I  And  oh,  the  poor, 
poor,  helpless,  most  destitute  innocent!"  said  Mary,  with 
the  tears  bathing  her  face.  Tears — such  tears  are  not 
dangerous — and  so  they  did  not  alarm  Judge  Washington 
or  stay  his  speech. 

"  It  is  in  behalf  of  this  destitute  babe  that  the  dying 


80  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

mother  sends  you  this  message.  She  implores  tha ,  for  the 
sake  of  all  her  tender  care  of  you  in  your  infancy,  for  the 
sake  of  the  dead  Margaret,  and  for  the  sake  of  God,  you 
will  care  for  the  orphan  babe  who  is  cast  off  by  her  grand- 
father, and  see  to  its  being  put  in  a  place  of  safe  nurture. 
And,  my  Mary,  it  is  because  the  poor  woman  cannot  die 
peacefully  without  a  promise  brought  to  her  from  your  owu 
lips,  that  I  have  ventured  to  risk  disturbing  you." 

"Thank  you,  dear  father.  Wise  and  good  father,  thank 
you  for  telling  me." 

"Bruin  waits  to  take  your  answer  back,  my  Mary." 

"  Let  him  hasten  and  tell  my  dear  nurse  that  I  take  her 
Margaret's  baby — my  sister's  baby,  to  my  own  bosom,  and 
think  that  God  has  given  me  twins.  And  let  him  tell  her 
that  I  come  myself  to  assure  her  of  it  with  ray  own  lips." 

The  Judge  left  the  room,  and  soon  returned,  saying : 

"  I  did  your  bidding,  Mary,  in  regard  to  the  first  part  of 
your  message,  but  for  the  last,  my  love,  it  is  impossible,  you 
know.  You  cannot  go." 

"  Ah,  father,  do  not  you  say  so.  You  have  faith  and 
courage.  You  know  that  God  will  protect  me  if  I  rely 
upon  him  while  venturing  any  thing  for  the  sake  of  good." 

"  My  dear  Mary,  my  love,  my  darling,  consider.  You 
would  risk  your  life  unnecessarily  ;  that  would  be  rash  and 
presumptuous." 

"  Ah,  no,  father,  not  to  give  peace  to  my  dying  friend, 
would  be  unnecessary,  rash,  or  presumptuous." 

"  But  you  would  run  a  fearful  risk,  my  dear  Mary. " 

"  Ah,  father,  is  not  that  what  old  nurse  would  call  a 
!  notion,'  that  tender  fear  of  yours  ?  See,  father,  how  strong 
and  well  I  am  for  all  my  ephemeral  look,  and  see  how 
much  I  have  already  gone  through,  which,  thanks  to  God 
and  to  your  sustaining  aid,  has  not  impaired  my  bodily 
health." 


NEW-YEAR'S   MORNING.  81 

"  That  you  know  of,  my  love.  But,  Mary,  this  exposure 
*t  such  a  time — ah,  my  child,  you  must  not  think  of  it — 
you  must  give  it  up.  I  myself  will  go  and  see  poor  Mrs. 
Hawk,  and  deliver  literally  any  message  you  send,  and 
promise  any  thing  you  wish  in  your  name,"  said  the  Judge, 
with  affectionate  earnestness  and  gravity. 

Mary  raised  her  pleading  eyes  to  his,  and  placed  her 
delicate  hands  together,  and  said,  in  an  imploring  voice : 

"  Father,  dear  father,  hinder  me  not.  If  you  forbid  me, 
I  will  not  go  ;  but  oh,  I  shall  lie  here  with  such  an  aching 
heart,  to  know  my  nurse-mother  dying,  and  so  near  me,  and 
I  not  with  her ;  and  afterward  to  know  her  dead,  and  the 
opportunity  of  doing  her  this  good  service  taken  from  my 
power.  Father,  dear  father,  oh,  let  me  go  !" 

"  Mary,  my  own  dear  heart's  child,  if  it  were  not  for  fear 
of  risking  your  health,  I  should  not  oppose  your  wishes. 
Forbid  you,  hinder  you,  Mary,  I  do  not ;  I  never  did  or 
shall  arrogate  to  myself  any  control  over  your  free  action, 
my  child." 

"  But,  father,  I  will  not,  indeed  I  could  not  bring  myself 
to  do  any  thing  against  your  wishes ;  but  I  want  you,  in 
this  instance,  to  think  as  I  do." 

"Be  a  woman  like  thou,  dear  child?" 

"Father,  just  consider;  it  is  all  a  'notion,'  this,  about 
the  danger.  Think  how  many  women  I  have  read  of  in 
history,  who,  in  '  troublous  times,'  frequently  endured  hun- 
ger, cold,  fatiguing  journeys,  all  at  once,  delicate  women, 
too,  and  yet  they  never  perished.  Now,  father,  the  sun  has 
come  out  warm,  and  it  is  thawing  out  of  doors,  and  the 
distance  is  short,  and  I  can  go  in  the  close  carriage,  and 
oe  well  wrapped  up  in  shawls  and  furs  and  my  eidei-down 
quilt.  There  will  be  no  danger,  if  care  is  taken,  in  my 
going ;  but  if  I  stay  here,  oh,  father,  I  am  afraid  that,  like 
a  very  bad  child,  I  shall  cry  myself  ill." 


82  THE     TWO     SISTEKS. 

Much  more  was  said  on  both  sides  with  which  I  will  not 
weary  the  reader,  as  it  was  but  a  variation  of  the  same 
thing.  And  finally  Mary  prevailed ;  and  at  high  noon 
found  herself  well  wrapped  up,  with  her  nurse  and  her  baby 
also,  in  the  close  carriage,  and  on  her  way  to  Blackthorns. 

It  was  but  a  ten  minutes'  drive,  and  Mary  was  soon  at 
the  bedside  of  the  dying  woman,  while  the  nurse  and  babe 
remained  in  the  outer  room. 

"  You  good  child  !  you  angel !  So  you  have  come ! 
But,  oh  !  Mary,  my  darling,  what  have  you  risked  ?" 

"Nothing,  dear,  good  nurse — nothing  at  all!  I  do  not 
feel  tired  from  this  little,  very  comfortable  ride  !" 

"  God  love  my  darling  ;"  faintly  gasped  the  sufferer ; 
"Grd  b'ess  the  good  girl  V 

"  Send  for  Maggy's  baby,  and  let  me  see  it,  dear  nurse. 
Mine  is  in  the  other  room — that  shall  be  brought  also,  and 
you  shall  see  it." 

"  Quickly,  then,  Mary,  my  child ;  you  are  my  child — 
ain't  you,  Mary  ?" 

"Always,  ever — dearest,  earliest  friend  !" 

"  Send  for  your  baby,  my  dear,  that  I  may  bless  her 
before  I  die. " 

Mary  made  a  sign  to  Bruin,  who  left  the  room  for  a  few 
minutes,  during  which  Mrs.  Comford  entered  with  the  babe. 
She  was  soon  followed  by  Bruin  himself,  bringing  in  the 
dead  Maggy's  infant,  which  had  become  his  charge  for  the 
time  being. 

Both  little  ones  were  brought  to  the  bed. 

"  Lay  Margaret's  baby  in  my  lap,  Bruin,"  said  Mary. 

And  he  did  so. 

"  Raise  me  up,  and  place  my  Mary's  infant  befere  me, 
neighbors,"  requested  Peggy — and  her  wish  was  complied 
with.  "  What  is  her  name,  my  child  ?"  asked  the  dying 
woman. 


NEW-YEAK'S    MOANING.  3J 

"  Mary  Virginia — I  have  given  her,  for  her  patron  saint, 
the  spotless  Virgin." 

The  dying  woman  looked  at  Mary  Washington  with  a 
profound  but  undefiuable  earnestness,  and  joining  her  feeble 
hands  together,  raised  her  eyes  to  Heaven,  and  in  simple 
but  fervent  words  invoked  the  blessing  of  God  and  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Virgin  upon  the  children;  then  she  motioned 
them  to  take  her  away,  and  sank  back  exhausted  upon  her 
pillow. 

Alary  waited  a  few  moments,  and  then  gently  inquired, 
"  What  is  the  name  of  this  my  younger — I  meau  my  second 
twin — nurse  ?" 

"I  had  not  thought  of  her  name  before — but— she  is  of 
bumble  birth — she  will  be  poor — may  be  beautiful ;  she 
will  associate  with  those  of  higher  rank  than  herself;  a  lot  . 
full  of  trial  and  temptation,  from  which  even  your  goodness  ' 
may  not  be  able  to  defend  her ;  therefore  I  will  give  her  for 
a  guardian  spirit — her  who  knows  the  mazy  and  treacherous 
road  from  having  lost  her  way  therein — her  who  was 
tempted,  fallen,  repentant,  and  redeemed  by  LOVE — St. 
Mary  Magdalene."  She  paused  again,  exhausted,  and  the 
tears  were  streaming  from  Mary  Washington's  face,  ob- 
structing her  reply — that  at  length  amid  sobs  came  forth — 

"  Your  Maggy,  my  foster  sister,  did  not  so  ;  I  have 
perfect  faith  in  her  purity — so  has  my  honored  father." 

"  Thank  you  !  bless  you  1  I  knew  it !  /  never  had  a 
doubt  of  my  child — never  !  It  was  not  that  which  made 
me  speak  as  I  did — ah,  no  !  with  my  cold,  dying  breath, 
could  I  breathe  a  cloud  upon  my  dead  child's  spotless 
name — ah,  no  !  it  was  not  that — it  was — but  my  time  ;s  so 
short !  Mary !" 

"  My  dear  nurse  1" 

"  Did  you  see  Father  Lucas,  as  you  came  in  ?" 

"Yes,  nurse." 


84  THK     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  He  was  sent  for  to  receive  my  last  confession,  and  to 
give  me  extreme  unction.  Mary  !" 

"My  dear  friend!" 

"  I  have  another  request  to  make  of  you." 

"  Make  it,  dear  nurse  !" 

"Let  the  two  children  be  christened  now,  by  my  bed- 
side." 

"  Yes.  indeed,  my  dear  friend,  it  shall  be  done — immedi- 
ately, if  you  like." 

"  Yes,  immediately,  for  my  time  is  very  short,  and  you, 
my  own  darling,  should  be  at  home  and  in  bed." 

"  Bruin,  please  ask  Father  Lucas  to  come  in,"  said  Mary. 

The  dwarf  departed  to  do  her  bidding. 

"And  another  request  I  have  to  make,  dear  Mary — so 
many  favors  have  I  to  ask  of  my  child." 

"  So  many  rights,  dear  nurse,  that  are  gratefully  acknowl- 
edged— what  is  it  then,  nurse  ?" 

"  Stand  sponsor  for  Magdalene." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  will,  very  gladly,  nurse — will  you  also 
stand  sponsor  for  Virginia?" 

"Ah,  my  Mary,  but  I  die!" 

"  Will  you  be  less  powerful  to  protect  her  in  heaven  than 
on  earth  ?" 

"No,  no." 

"Then  let  it  be  so,  kind  nurse." 

"  It  shall." 

Father  Lucas  now  entered  the  room,  and  by  the  bedside 
of  the  dying  woman  administered  the  rites  of  Christian 
baptism  to  the  infant  foster  sisters: 

Mary  Virginia,  and 

Mary  Magdalene. 

When  this  was  over,  the  expiring  woman  took  the  infants 
successively  in  her  arms,  and  earnestly  invoked  for  them  the 
blessing  of  God,  and  the  guardianship  of  saints  and  angels. 


N  K  W  -  Y  £  A  B  '  S     MORNING.  86 

Then  Mary  received  them  both  together  upon  her  mp,  and 
folding  her  arms  around  them,  pressed  them  to  her  bosom, 
vowing  to  love  both  equally  as  much  as  she  could,  and  to 
cherish  both  alike  as  long  as  she  and  they  should  live. 
Then  the  dying  nurse  bid  Mary  a  tender  farewell,  blessed 
her  and  dismissed  her,  and  was  left  alone  with  the  priest,  to 
recnve  the  last  services  and  consolations  of  her  church. 

As  she  passed  through  the  outer  room,  Mary  Washing- 
ton, pausing,  gave  a  last  look  of  love  and  adieu  to  Margaret, 
in  her  coffin,  severed  one  long,  glossy,  black  ringlet  from 
her  head,  pressed  one  final  kiss  upon  the  cold  brow,  and 
replacing  the  white  covering  of  her  face,  went  her  way. 

"  Thank  God  1"  said  Mary,  "  oh,  thank  God  1  that  I  was 
permitted  to  come  to  her." 

In  fifteen  minutes  more,  wearied  out  by  all  she  had  gone 
through,  Mary  Washington  was  reposing  on  her  own 
luxurious  couch. 

That  day  the  soul  of  Peggy  Hawk  returned  to  God. 


"  It  WM  a  strange  and  wileful  sprite 
An  ever  frighted  human  «if?ht," 

Th«  Changeling — Shreve. 

"  The  glorified  saints  in  Heaven  !  the  saints  alive  !  What 
tin  imp  !  It  looks  like  a  little  devil !  Look  at  its  eyes,  will 
you  I  Angels  alive  !  did  ever  any  one  see  such  eyes  ?  Ef  it 
don't  scare  me  1  'spose  it  was  to  talk  !  'Deed,  I  b'lieve  its 
gwine  to  !  'spose  it  was  to  open  its  mouth  and  speak  ! 
shouldn't  I  drap  it  an'  run  !  Here  mammy  !  take  the  scare- 
crow afore  I  let  it  drap  !" 

"  Wish  you  would  !  You  let  it  drap  now  I  and  see  what 
you'll  get  1  You  take  the  chile  right  straight  out'n  the 
draf,  an'  up  in  Miss  Mary's  room,  as  you  wer'  bidden." 

"  Deed,  mammy,  I  Traid  of  it  !     Look  at  its  great  hollow 


86  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

eyes  I  It's  gwine  to  say  something  !  'Deed,  ef  it  talks,  I 
shall  drap  it  and  run  !" 

"  Look  here,  gal  !  take  chile  right  np  stairs — Foolish- 
ness !" 

"  '  Spose  I  shall  have  to  nuss  the  witchified  little  thing ! 
Wouldn't  sleep  with  it  for  the  best  goolden  guinea  that 
ever  was  fetched  over  from  Englan  !" 

"  Lord  a  marcy  !  is  the  creature  gwine  to  stand  there  all 
day  yopping  her  mouth  ?  'Clare  to  man,  ef  you  don't  start 
— it'll  be  the  wus  for  you  1" 

"  I'm  gwine — I'm  gwine  now  !  But  mind,  mammy,  ef 
you  hear  any  thing  fall,  and  anybody — you  may  know  what 
it  is !» 

"  Yes,  you  do  !  It'll  be  good  for  you,  that's  all  I  can 
say !" 

This  colloquy  took  place  at  the  foot  of  the  great  stair- 
case, between  the  mischievous  Coral  and  her  mother,  the 
morning  after  the  funeral,  when  the  infant  Magdalene  was 
brought  by  Bruin  to  Prospect  Hill,  and  placed  in  the  arms 
of  the  frightened  maid  to  be  carried  up  to  her  mistress. 

Mary  Washington  was  in  her  own  chamber.  I  must 
describe  this  chamber,  as  it  was  the  very  sanctuary  of  the 
mother.  It  was  a  large,  square  front  chamber,  upon  the 
second  floor,  and  fronting  the  East.  It  was  lighted  by  one 
large  East  bay-window, — her  dawn  window.  Opposite, 
against  the  West  wall,  sat  the  head  of  Mary's  rosewood 
bedstead,  under  a  canopy  ;  on  the  right  of  this  was  a  door 
leading  into  the  passage-way  ;  on  the  left,  a  door  leading 
into  the  dressing-room — now  the  nursery.  On  the  South, 
were  two  windows,  at  which  the  sun  shone  in  nearly  all  the 
whole  day  ;  between  the  windows  stood  a  rosewood  bureau 
and  dressing-glass.  On  the  North  was  the  fire-place,  sur- 
mounted by  a  white  marble  chimney-piece.  The  canopy 


NEW- YEAR'S    MORNING.  87 

of  the  bedstead,  the  curtains  of  the  windows,  the  coverings 
of  the  chairs,  lounges,  and  foot-  cushions,  were  all  of  light 
blue  damask. 

The  walls  of  the  chamber  were  white.  The  carpet  was 
of  a  white  ground,  with  running  blue  flowers.  There  were 
books,  pictures,  statuettes,  and  musical  instruments — all,  not 
costly,  but  beautiful.  And  there  were  many  other  things 
besides — every  thing  that  goes  to  make  any  one  particular 
room  in  a  house  seem  like  the  very  heart  of  home. 

Mary  Washington  sat  in  a  large,  blue-covered  easy  chair 
by  the  fire.  Her  delicate  form  wrapped  in  a  warm  dressing 
gown  of  fine  white  flannel,  wadded  and  lined  with  white 
silk  ;  her  soft  brown  hair  was  parted  smoothly  above  her 
brow,  and  the  gossamer  borders  of  a  thread  lace  cap 
dropped  faint  shadows  upon  shining  hair  and  snowy 
cheek.  On  one  side  of  the  youthful  mother  sat  the  cradle 
in  which  reposed  the  infant  Virginia,  covered  with  a  blue 
silk  quilt  of  eider  down  ;  on  the  other  side,  upon  a  cushion, 
between  her  chair  and  the  corner  of  the  fire-place,  sat  Josey 
with  his  book.  Mary  had  stopped  to  listen  for  some  one 
who  was  coming  up  the  stairs,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Coral  entered,  bearing  little  Magdalene  in  her  arms.  She 
crossed  the  room,  bringing  the  child  gingerly,  and  stoop- 
ing, held  it  before  Mrs.  Washington,  saying, 

"  Here  it  is,  Miss  Mary — the  little  Jack-my-lantern  !" 

"  Lay  her  on  my  lap,  Coral.  I  have  just  laid  littlo 
Virginia  down  to  sleep,  and  am  ready  for  Magdalene." 

"  Don't  take  the  thing,  Miss  Mary,  dear  !  it  do  look  so 
fierce  and  wenomous,  with  its  great  eyes  and  its  lantern  jaws  !" 

"  She  is  only  famished,  Coral.     Give  her  to  me!" 

"  Oh  don't  put  the  little  wampire  to  your  bosom,  Miss 
Mary  ;  'deed  it'll  bite  you  !" 

"  Coral  /"  said  Mrs.  Washington,  in  a  tone  of  grava, 
though  gentle  rebuke. 


88  THE     TWO     SISTERS 

The  girl  immediately  placed  the  babe  in  the  lady's  arms, 
who,  receiving  it,  said, 

"  You  must  not  take  a  dislike  to  this  poor  babe, 
Coral." 

"  Lord  save  it,  Miss  Mary,  I  don't  hate  it  more  an  I  do 
lizards,  but  I'm  fear'd  of  it,  you  know  !  it  is  snch  a  queer 
little  human,  an'  it  do  look  so  kuowin'  an'  wicked — but  1 
'spose  the  Lord  made  it — yes,  I  do  'spose  he  really  did, 
just  as  he  jaade  the  scorapins,  (scorpions)  for  some  good 
an'  wise  purpose,  as  they  say  1  though  it  ain't  safe  to  handle 
of  'em.  Miss  Mary,  'xcuse  me  this  once,  but  'deed  you 
better  let  me  take  the  little  reptyle  down-stairs,  and  feed  it 
with  gruel !" 

"  Coral,  you  pain  me  by  speaking  so  of  the  poor  starved 
baby." 

This  was  always  Mrs.  Washington's  gravest  rebuke. 
"  You  pain  me,"  and  it  always  had  its  effect. 

"  Dear  Miss  Mary,  don't  mind  me.  'Deed,  I  haven't  the 
leastest  mislike  to  the  baby — it's  all  put  on  for  fun.  You 
know  mammy  says  I'm  a  big  devil,  anyhow,  and  the  baby 
is  such  a  funny,  scrawny,  savage-looking  little  thing." 

"  You  may  go  now,  Coral,"  said  her  mistress,  and  "Pretty 
Coral,"  "  Coral  Red,"  went. 

"  Will  you  love  this  sister  also,  Josey  ?" 

"  I  will  try,  if  you  like  me  to,  little  mother ;  but  it  will  be 
very  hard,  for  it  is  a  very  ugly  sister." 

"Oh,  Josey  !" 

"I  will  love  Virginia,  mamma,  as  much  as  ever  you 
please.  Virginia  is  so  white,  and  soft,  and  pretty,  and 
good !" 

"But  won't  you  try  to  love  poor  Magdalene  ?" 

"  I  said  I  would  try,  mamma ;  but  it  is  such  an  ugly  sister 
— so  thin  and  black-looking,  just  like  a  little  young  gosling 
before  the  feathers  are  on." 


N  E  W  -  Y  Ifl  A  It '  S      M  O  R  N  I  N  G .  89 

"  Josey,  she  is  like  that  poor  little  naked,  uufeathered 
bird  which  the  storm  beat  from  its  nest,  and  which  you 
found  nnder  the  tree — which  gasped  and  died  in  your  little 
hands." 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  was  sorry  for  the  birdling,  because  you 
said,  if  the  storm  had  not  beaten  it  from  its  nest,  it  would 
have  become  a  beautiful  song-bird,  that  would  have  soared 
and  sung  through  all  the  sunny  air." 

"Little  buy,  Magdalene  is  like  that  bird — storm-beaten 
from  her  nest;  and  if  we  do  not  warm,  and  feed,  and  cher- 
ish her,  she,  too,  will  die." 

"Yes,  mamma,"  said  the  little  caviller,  thumbing  his 
book  ;  "  but  then,  again,  she  has  got  such — such — such 
what-you-call-em  eyes  !" 

"  Such  fierce,  eager  eyes,  you  mean,  Josey;  so  she  has, 
for  a  baby,  but  then  that  is  because  she  is  famished.  Her 
eyes  are  fierce  because  her  stomach  is  famished.  Let  us 
nurse  and  love  her,  and  we  shall  see  how  soft  her  eyes  will 
beam,  and  how  round  and  fair  her  face  will  grow,  and  how 
pretty,  and  good,  and  lovely  she  will  be.  And  now  listen, 
little  boy,  I  have  something  to  tell  you  which  I  want  you 
to  remember  ;  are  you  listening  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  little  mother." 

"  Well  then,  it  is  this  :  When  you  get  to  be  a  man,  and 
see  men — poor,  ill-used  men,  perhaps  with  fierce  passions — 
do  not  hate  them,  and  wish  to  take  vengeance  on  them, 
but  think  that  something  in  their  natures  has  been  starved 
— think  that  where  passions  are  fierce,  the  soul  has  been 
famished — do  you  understand  me,  Josey  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  yes,  mamma — better  than  you  think  I  do. 
I  feel  it  here,  and  I  know  it  here,  but  I  don't  know  how  to 
tell  you  any  more,"  said  he,  placing  his  hands  upon  his  heart 
and  his  head,  and  raising  his  dilating  blue  eyes  to  her  eyes, 
with  one  of  those  profoundly  solemn  looks  that  often  moved 


90  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

the  mirth  of  the  merry  Coral,  and  excited  the  admiration 
of  Bruin  to  a  fever  height. 

The  orphan  babe  was  certainly  unpopular  at  the  hall. 
Mrs.  Comford  entered  with  her  charge's  dinner  just  at  this 
point  of  the  conversation,  and  finding  Mary  actually  en- 
gaged in  nursing  the  child,  set  herself  to  expostulate  seri- 
ously against  the  measure. 

"You  cannot  stand  it,  ma'am.  It  will  certainly  break 
down  your  health." 

"  Ah,  no,  good  Mrs.  Comford ;  you  know  it  will  not. 
More  delicate  women  than  myself  have  nursed  twins  before 
now." 

"Ah,  dear  lady,  but  this  strange  child — such  a  thing  was 
never  heard  of!" 

"Oh,  yes,  good  nurse,  it  has  been  heard  of,  and  done — 
Margaret's  mother  divided  her  cradle  and  her  milk  with  me, 
and  I  will  do  so  for  her  child." 

"  But,  dear  lady,  it  is  enough  to  take  the  infant  in  the 
house  and  care  for  it,  without  putting  it  to  your  own 
bosom." 

"  So  did  not  Margaret's  mother  think  when  she  took  me 
to  her  bosom ;  so  do  not  I  think  by  her  child." 
"But,  dear  lady,  you  are  so  fragile." 
"Good  nurse,  all  who  look  fragile  are  not  so  ;  because  I 
am  very  small  and  slight,  and  have  a  very  fair  skin,  you 
need  not  think  me  feeble.  Size  and  weight,  is  not  so  often 
a  sign  of  health  and  strength  either,  as  is  supposed,  or  the 
want  of  it  an  indication  of  weakness ;  indeed,  I  think  the 
contrary  is  the  case,  and  that  small  persons  are  proportion- 
ably  stronger  than  large  ones.  No,  nurse,  I  am  strong  and 
healthy,  thank  Heaven  1  and  quite  adequate  to  the  task  of 
nursing  these  two  children.  Besides,  oh,  consider,  I  feel  so 
sorry  for  this  poor,  destitute  little  one,  she  is  so  thin,  so 
delicate,  she  can  never  be  raised  by  hand  ;  she  will  die  if  I 


NEW-YEAK'S    JIORNING.  yi 

do  not  save  her.  Ah,  it  would  give  me  too  much  pain  not 
to  do  this ;  and  I  think,  suppose  I  had  died,  would  I  not 
have  blessed,  from  heaven,  any  mother  that  would  have 
taken  my  child  ?" 

The  young  mother  was  right  in  one  thing — her  Health 
and  strength  suffered  no  diminution  from  nursing  the  two 
infants.  The  Judge  made  no  objection  to  this  second 
protege,  only  smilingly  he  said  : 

"  My  dear  Mary,  you  have  a  talent  for  colonizing ;  we 
will  send  you  to  the  West  some  day." 

Adam  Hawk  by  no  word  or  sign  gave  evidence  of  his 
knowledge  of  the  existence  of  his  grandchild  for  some  time 
. — but  then  game,  braces  of  quails,  canvas-back  ducks, 
benches  of  ortolen,  and  other  rare  river  or  forest  luxuries, 
found  their  way  to  the  Mansion-Honse  with  Adam  Hawk's 
duty  to  the  mistress. 

Mary  was  soon  out  of  her  room,  and  had  resumed  her 
place  at  the  head  of  her  father's  table.  And  now  there 
came  one  of  those  beautiful  spells  of  weather  that  often  visit 
this  climate,  even  in  the  dead  of  winter,  and  Mary  received 
the  congratulatory  visits  of  her  neighbors,  the  Mountjoys, 
of  Alta  Bayon  ;  the  Brokes,  of  Forest  Hall ;  and,  in  short, 
of  all  the  county  ladies,  far  and  near. 

"  Pity  the  babe  had  not  been  a  boy." 

"She  will  be  a  great  heiress  one  of  these  days." 

"  I  wonder  whether  she  will  be  educated  in  the  Catholic 
or  Protestant  religion — the  grandfather  being  Episcopalian 
and  the  mother  Catholic." 

These  were  some  of  the  comments  made  by  the  guests  as 
they  would  depart.  Of  Mary's  second  adopted  child  they 
said  nothing  at  all.  Her  character  was  so  unique,  so  well 
known  if  not  well  understood,  that  the  circumstance  of  the 
adoption  excited  no  interest  by  the  side  of  that  of  the  heir- 
ess. So  passed  January.  During  a  second  spell  of  fine 


92  THE     TWO     S  I  S  T  E  K  S  . 

weather  in  the  latter  part  of  February,  Mary  returned  some 
of  these  visits,  and  after  a  final  blast  of  winter  in  the  first 
week  of  March,  the  Spring  opened  unusually  early,  and 
Mary  could  freely  ride  or  walk  about,  accompanied  by  her 
children  and  their  nurse,  Coral,  whose  marriage  with  the 
black  prince,  for  some  mysterious  reason  between  the  par- 
ties, was  indefinitely  postponed — as  she  said,  "  Broke  off  for 
good !" 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"THE     SKELETON     AT     THE     FEAST." 

"  Is  there  a  crime 

Beneath  the  roof  of  Heaven,  that  stains  the  soul 
Of  man  with  more  Infernal  hue,  than  damned 
Assassination  1"— Gibber. 

SPRING  had  fully  opened,  and  Mary,  malgre  all  her  past 
trials,  was  glad  with  her  children  and  with  nature.  The 
Judge,  bidding  her  an  affectionate  farewell,  departed  on  his 
circuit,  leaving  her  to  superintend  the  house,  the  garden, 
the  people,  and  in  some  sort  the  whole  estate — but  in  this 
weighty  responsibility  she  was  aided  arid  seconded  in  their 
several  departments,  by  the  housekeeper,  the  overseer,  and 
the  gardener  Gulliver — so  named  for  his  marvelous  stories. 
It  was  Mary's  habit  to  devote  all  her  forenoons  to  hearing 
the  different  reports,  and  giving  orders  to  these  domestic 
ministers ;  and  this  Coral — whose  quick  intelligence  picked 
np  all  sorts  of  sonorous  phrases — called  her  "  Kitchen  Cabi- 
net." In  the  afternoon,  it  was  her  pleasure  to  go  rambling 
with  her  children,  leading  little  Josey  by  the  hand,  and  fo.- 
lowed  by  Coral  with  a  babe  on  each  arm.  But  as  the 


THE     SKELETON     AT     T H  K     F E  A S  T .         93 

children  grew,  and  Madgie's  skeleton  form  tilled  out  with 
flesh,  they  became  too  heavy  a  burden  for  Coral — and  then 
a  light  wicker  carriage,  with  two  seats,  was  purchased  for 
them,  and  then  Josey  grew  obstreperous,  and  insisted  upon 
dragging  it  himself.  Mary  tried  it  herself,  and  finding 
indeed  that  it  would  be  no  labor  at  all  even  for  her  little 
boy  to  drag  it,  gave  her  consent — for  of  all  things  Mary 
loved  best  to  be  alone  with  her  children.  So  in  that  old- 
fashioned  guise — namely,  Ginnie  and  Madgie,  as  the  babes 
were  called,  seated  in  the  carriage,  Josey  pulling  it  before 
and  Mary  walking  by  its  side  steadying  it  over  rough  places 
— they  would  go  wandering  : — down  the  gradual  hill  in 
trout  of  the  house,  and  .over  the  plains  covered  with  soft, 
bright-green  grass,  or  by  the  "still  waters"  of  the  clear 
ponds  lying  here  and  there,  or  through  the  beautiful  groves 
of  trees  scattered  around  ;  or  : — going  out  from  the  back  of 
the  mansion,  ascend  the  easy  and  tree-shaded  slope  that  led 
into  the  woods  behind  the  house,  and  entering  a  broad  road 
that  used  a  long  time  ago  to  lead  to  the  county-seat,  but 
that  with  long  disuse  was  now  grass-grown,  shady,  cool, 
and  fresh,  and  formed  a  most  delightful  avenue  through  the 
thick  interminable  forest.  This  was  pre-eminently  Josey's 
favorite  haunt — for  here  he  found  at  every  step  such  l^ea- 
sures  of  nature,  plants,  insects,  flowers,  birds,  trees  of  end- 
less variety  and  interest — and  here,  too,  for  its  sequestered 
shade,  Mary  loved  best  to  come. 

One  day — it  was  the  first  of  May — Mary  had  promised  that 
she  would  give  a  woodland  May-day  fete,  and  that  Josey 
.should  have  his  little  neighbors,  Viola  and  Violetta  Swan, 
the  twin  nieces,  and  Broke  Shields,  the  nephew  of  their 
near  neighbor,  General  Mountjoy,  of  Alta  Bayou  ;  and  so 
at  an  early  hour  of'  the  morning,  the  "Pair  of  Swans,"  as 
the  twin  sisters  were  called,  arrived  in  charge  of  their  cou- 
sin. Broke  Shields,  a  fine  boy  of  ten  years  of  age. 


94  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

The  party  set  out  early  in  the  forenoon,  and  after  a  ram- 
ble through  the  forest,  during  which  they  gathered  an 
abundance  of  wild  flowers,  they  seated  themselves  to  rest  in 
a  forest  glade  through  which  the  "  old  road"  passed.  And 
when  a  plentiful  repast  of  light  white  biscuits,  fresh  butter, 
cream,  and  early  strawberries  had  been  spread  upon  the 
green  grass,  the  children  gathered  around  this  feast,  waited 
upon  by  Coral,  while  her  mistress  sat  apart  under  the  shade 
of  a  large  oak,  and  beside  the  wicker  carriage  where  her 
babies  lay. 

The  children  were  in  the  midst  of  their  hilarity,  when  an 
event  occurred  that  speedily  put  an  end  to  the  festivity  of 
the  morning. 

Mary  had  just  laid  Magdalene  in  the  little  carriage,  and 
taken  up  Virginia,  whom  she  was  about  to  fold  to  her 
bosom,  when  the  report  of  a  pistol  was  heard  near,  and  a 
bullet  whistled  past  her  and  between  herself  and  the  child 
she  held,  so  that  she  felt  its  whiz  and  heat,  and  passing 
through  the  top  of  the  many-colored  turban  of  Coral  and 
carrying  it  off,  lodged  in  the  bark  of  a  tree  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road.  The  danger  was  past  as  soon  as  known  ; 
but  consternation  fell  upon  the  little  party,  who  gazed  at 
each  other  in  dismay,  and  then  upon  Broke  Shields,  who 
had  sprung  upon  his  feet  with  starting  eyes  and  extended 
arm,  and  was  staring  and  pointing  in  the  direction  whence 
the  shot  was  fired — one  instant — and  then  with  a  bound 
forward  he  disappeared  in  the  forest.  This  broke  the  spell 
of  silent  amazement.  Viola  and  Violetta  clung  to  each 
other,  screaming  in  terror.  Josey  instinctively  sprang  to 
the  side  of  his  mamma — his  best  loved — and  threw  his  arms 
around  her  as  if  to  shield  her.  Coral  clapped  her  hands  to 
her  dismantled  head,  and  ran  about  wildly,  asking  every- 
b(  dy  : 

"Am  my  brains  blown  out  ?  Am  my  brains  blown  out  ?" 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST,    95 

"  Be  easy,  children.  The  danger  is  quite  over  now.  It 
was  only  some  sportsman,  who  did  not  know  we  were  here, 
and  who  fired  at  a  bird.  They  ought  not  to  shoot  the  poor 
birds  at  this  season,  while  they  are  raising  their  young, 
either,''  said  Mary  ;  but  her  face  was  ashen  pale,  she  trem- 
bled in  every  limb,  and  her  voice  faltered,  even  while  she 
attempted  to  reassure  herself  and  the  children. 

The  children  were  too  much  terrified  to  remain  there. 
The  May-day  feast  was  broken  up.  The  little  ones  cowered 
around  Mary,  who  only  waited  the  reappearance  of  Broke 
to  return  to  the  house.  The  lad  came  at  length,  pale,  fa- 
tigued, and  disappointed. 

"  Why  did  you  run  off,  my  dear  boy  ?  Did  you  see  any 
one  ?" 

"Yes,  Mary,"  answered  Shields,  who  being  but  six  years 
Mary's  junior,  and  having  been  her  playmate,  continued  to 
call  the  child-mother  Mary. 

"  Whom  did  you  see,  Broke  ?" 

"A  man." 

"Some  sportsman,  my  boy;  never  look  so  heated  and 
angry.  It  was  careless,  perhaps,  but  it  was  unintentional." 

"Was  it  a  white  or  colored  man?"  asked  Coral,  with 
much  interest. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  in  fact  I  only  saw  a  pair  of  legs  in  dark 
pantaloons  between  the  trunks  of  the  trees.  I  could  not 
Bee  the  form  or  face  of  the  man  for  the  thick  leaves.  I  saw 
his  arm  protruded — the  pistol  aimed  at  Mary's  bosom — 
fired — and  the  legs  spring  away — all  in  a  second  just  as  I 
started  up." 

Mary  became  deadly  pale. 

"  Aimed  at  mamma  1  fired  at  mamma  !"  faltered  Josey. 

"  Fired  at  Mary,"  murmured  the  frightened  twins.  And 
the  children  hovered  around  their  beloved  Mary  as  though 
they  would  have  covered  her. 


96  THE     TWO     SISTEKS. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  saw  the  muzzle  pointed — look  !  look  !  look  , 
Coral  has  fainted." 

Coral  had  indeed  fallen  in  a  deep  swoon.  Mary  laid  her 
child  in  the  carriage,  arose  and  tottered  toward  her  fallen 
maid,  stooped  over  her  and  attempted  to  raise  her,  then 
turning  to  the  terrified  children,  she  said,  in  a  voice  tremu- 
lous in  spite  of  herself : 

"  Go,  go,  my  dear  children,  hurry  to  the  house  and  tell 
Aunt  Poll  to  come  quickly.  Broke,  do  you  go  with  them, 
my  dear." 

The  children  departed  all  but  Josey. 

"  Go,  Josey,"  said  she. 

"  No,  mamma,  no.  Never  will  I  leave  you  in  the  wicked 
woods  alone,"  said  Josey,  who  had  closely  followed  his 
mother. 

"Dear  Josey,  there  is  no  danger.  It  was  a  mistake  of 
Broke's.  The  man  was  taking  aim  at  something  in  or  near 
aline  with  me,  but  beyond  me.  There  is  no  danger,  darling." 

"But,  mamma,  you  have  such  white  lips,  and  you  shake 
so." 

"  It  is  fright,  Josey,  only  fright,  the  weakness  of  the 
.body  ;  ray  mind  tells  me  there  is  no  more  danger,  love." 

"  Mamma,  THERE  is !  I  feel  it  here  and  here — where  I 
feel  every  thing  that  is  true  about  you"  said  the  child, 
placing  one  hand  on  his  head  and  the  other  on  his  heart. 
"Mamma,  go  home,  leave  me  here  with  Coral  and  the 
babies." 

"  Little  soldier!"  fondly  exclaimed  Mary,  withdrawing 
her  hand  from  Coral's  forehead,  which  she  was  bathing, 
and  encircling  Josey  with  her  arm.  "  Little  soldier,  one 
of  these  days  what  a  protector  you  will  be  to  mamma  and 
four  sisters  ;  but  now,  love,  there  is  nothing  to  alarm  us. 
It  is  only  your  loving  anxiety,  darling,  that  troubles  heart 
and  brain." 


THE     SKELETON     AT     1  hi  K     FEAST.          97 

"Mamma,  mamma,  was  not  Uncle  Carey  shot  so — juxt 
so?" 

"Merciful  Heaven!  so  he  was,  and  his  murderer  never 
discovered,  and  his  motive  never  even  remotely  guessed  !" 
faltered  Mary,  shuddering  through  all  her  litnbs,  and  lor  a 
moment  dropping  her  face  upon  her  hand. 

"  Come,  go  home,  little  mother,"  pleaded  Josty,  with  his 
arm  around  her  neck. 

She  returned  his  embrace,  and  then  said  : 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot  leave  Coral  here  alone — and — and — 
there  can  be  nothing  in  it !  No  !  No  !  It  is  only  a  coin- 
cidence— it  just  happened  so,  Josey  !  I  have  not  an  enemy 
in  the  world  !  I  never  had  !  And  there  is  not  a  soul  on 
earth  that  could  be  benefirted  by  my  death  !  It  is  terrible  ! 
It  is  very  terrible  !  but — it  only  happened  .so/"  said  Mary, 
striving  for  composure — but  so  sick — so  sick  with  deadly 
fear  that  she  could  scarcely  keep  from  swooning  herself. 

The  hasty  approach  of  Poll  Pepper,  followed  by  two  or 
three  of  the  housemaids  and  Prince,  relieved  her ;  motion- 
ing them  to  raise  Coral,  she  prepared  to  return  to  the  house, 
amid  the  comments,  questions,  and  exclamations  of  astonish- 
ment, fright,  and  horror  from  the  assembled  servants. 
They  reached  the  hall — the  children  were  sent  home,  and 
Coral  conveyed  to  bed  in  a  raging  brain  fever. 

So  terminated  the  May-date  fete. 

After  her  first  fright  was  over,  Mary  Washington  reso- 
lutely withdrew  her  thoughts  from  dwelling  upon  the  mys- 
terious event  in  the  Old  Road,  and  gave  her  whole  attention 
to  her  children,  her  maid,  and  her  multifarious  household 
duties.  It  was  four  weeks  before  Coral  was  up — and  so 
changed!  She  was  no  longer  "Pretty  Coral,"  or  "Merry 
Coral,"  and  nobody  called  her  as  of  old,  "  Coral  Red  ;"  she 
was  almost  white- Coral,  so  pale  was  she.  "  How  she  loved 
her  mistress,"  every  one  said,  "  that  such  an  escape  from 


«}8  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

danger  should  have  overwhelmed  her  so."  And  Mary  her- 
self felt  redoubled  affection  for  her  hand-maiden.  Mary 
did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  disturb  Judge  Washington's 
mind  by  the  relation  of  these  circumstances  in  any  of  her 
letters — and  to  herself,  as  well  as  to  all  the  family,  and  to 
the  neighbors  who  chanced  much  to  her  regret  to  hear  the 
story,  she  continually  said,  "  Of  course  it  was  an  accidental 
shot  from  some  unseasonable  sportsman.  1  cannot  possibly 
think  otherwise.  I  have  not — I  never  had — an  enemy  in  the 
world  ;  and  none  on  earth  could  be  benefitted  by  my  death." 
But  Mary  walked  no  more  on  the  "  Old  Turnpike  Road." 

Thus,  buried  among  her  hand-maidens,  like  some  Roman 
matron  of  old,  were  the  two  next  months  of  the  Judge's 
absence  passed — and  the  end  of  this  period  brought  the 
first  of  July,  when  he  was  expected  to  return  home. 

"Your  master  will  be  home  to-morrow,"  she  had  said  to 
the  field  negroes,  while  making  her  round  that  afternoon 
upon  her  little  donkey,  in  company  with  Adam  Hawk — and 
taking  sweet  authority  upon  herself,  dismissing  them  earlier 
than  usual  to  their  quarters.  "  Your  master  will  be  home 
to-night,  and  for  that  and  another  reason,  to-morrow  will  be 
a  holiday  you  know — so  every  man,  woman,  and  child,  must 
dou  their  new  clean  clothes,  and  be  in  front  of  the  vestibule 
to  greet  him,  and  see  what  he  has  brought  for  them."  And 
smiling  a  good-night  to  them,  she  turned  away.  And  they 
were  half  inclined  to  regret  holiday,  master's  return,  and  all, 
for  the  reason  that  his  beautiful  and  gentle  daughter  would 
no  longer  reign  in  his  stead.  Mary  was  in  very  high  spirits 
for  her.  The  Judge  had  said  to  her  on  leaving,  three 
months  before,  and  on.  concluding  his  directions  to  her  con- 
cerning the  management  of  the  estate  during  his  absence — 
''  Thus  you  see,  my  child,  I  leave  you  a  large  margin  to  be 
filled  out  at  your  own  discretion.  You  must  not  be  fettered 
by  any  more  directions.  You  must  learn  to  be  a  planter 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST.    99 

practical,  Mary — for  one  of  these  days,  when  Adam  Hawk 
and  I  are  gathered  to  our  fathers,  you  will  have  the  whole 
business  upon  your  own  hands — or,  what  is  the  same  thing 
or  worse,  you  will  have  some  new  overseer  who  is  unfit  for 
his  place." 

Every  thing  in  the  Judge's  absence  had  gone  marvel- 
ously  well ;  and  now  Mary  was  prepared  to  render  an 
account  of  her  stewardship  with  great  pleasure. 

"  Grandpa  is  coming  home  to-night,"  she  had  said  to  Josey 
on  putting  him  to  bed.  "  Prince  has  gone  with  the  carriage 
to  St.  Leonard  to  meet  him — but  it  will  be  late  when  he 
comes,  and  he  will  be  tired,  and  must  not  be  disturbed  by 
children — so  my  little  boy  must  even  content  himself  and  go 
to  sleep — but  he  may  wake  as  early  as  he  pleases  to-morrow, 
and  come  in  mother's  room — for  to-morrow  is  the  first  of 
July,  and  a  holiday — and  Josey  shall  see  grandpa,  and  go 
to  the  wild  beast  show  at  St.  Leonard's,  and  have  his  birth- 
day party  out  on  the  Old  Road,  too."  And  she  kissed  and 
left  him  to  repose.  Her  two  babies  were  also  asleep.  And 
Mary  went  down  to  the  wainscoted  parlor,  where  she  had 
ordered  a  late  supper  to  be  prepared.  And  there  she 
awaited  him. 

The  carriage  returned  at  nine  o'clock,  with  the  Judge,- 
looking  hale  and  cheerful,  and  full  of  expressions  of  delight 
at  returning,  and  of  affection  for  his  Mary.  He  looked  at 
her  with  surprise  and  pleasure.  He  led  her  under  the  light 
of  a  chandelier,  and  looked  again.  Yes!  she  was  certainly 
improving — her  fair  cheeks  had  rounded  and  become  rosy — 
she  looked  considerably  less  dreamy  and  spiritual — and  more 
substantial  and  real — nursing,  goodness,  active  occupation 
— one  or  all  of  these  agreed  with  her  assuredly. 

"Why,  my  little  daughter,  I  shall  certainly  superannuate 
Adam  Hawk,  who  is  getting  old,  and  make  you  my  manager, 
since  you  thrive  so  upon  farming." 


100  THE     TWO     SISTEBS. 

"  Perhaps  you  will,  sir,  when  you  see  the  results  of  my 
administration  ;  though  I  fear  I  should  have  made  a  bad 
regent  without  the  advice  and  assistance  of  the  great  prime 
minister  of  agricultural  affairs.  Now  let  me  help  you  off 
with  your  coat — here  is  your  dressing-gown  and  slippers — 
sa  you  need  not  go  to  your  room;  but  come  in  to  supper, 
for  we  have — what  do  you  think  ?  Turtle  soup  !" 

During  supper  the  Judge  told  Mary  that  he  had  invited 
a  party  to  dine  with  him  on  the  ensuing  "  Fourth,"  when 
he  said  he  hoped  her  dinner  would  do  credit  to  Southern 
housewifery  in  general,  and  her  own  skill  in  particular. 
Mary  smilingly  told  him  to  rely  on  the  ablest  co-operation 
of  his  "  Minister  of  the  Interior."  And  soon  after  that,  the 
Judge,  deferring  business  until  the  next  day,  retired  to  his 
chamber. 

The  next  day  Mary  awoke  early,  and  lay  awake  as  usual 
for  an  hour  watching  the  day  break.  The  morning  was 
perfectly  clear,  not  the  lightest,  fleeciest  cloud  was  to  be 
seen  as  the  dull,  red  dawn  of  the  horizon  brightened  and 
brightened  into  intensest  crimson  fire  that  flamed  up  to- 
ward the  zenith,  lighting  into  a  blaze  the  flashing  waters 
of  the  bay,  and  flushing  the  soft,  green  plains  with  rose 
folor.  Mary  lay  watching  the  coming  of  the  sun,  and  it 
was  not  indolence  that  led  her  to  select  that  time  and  man- 
ner of  offering  up  her  morning  worship.  She  prayed  before 
the  dawn  window  as  others  prayed  before  altars.  Her  de- 
votions were  scarcely  over  when  Josey's  merry  voice  and 
quick  step  were  heard — the  door  was  burst  open,  and  he 
ran  in  and  climbed  up  for  his  mother's  morning  kiss ; 
suddenly  he  stopped  in  his  gladness,  and  became  very 
grave. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  love  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  have  just  remembered  it !" 

"  What  dear  ?" 


THK  SKELETON  AT  1HK  FEAST.   101 

Without  replying,  he  asked  mysteriously  : 

"  Mamma,  is  there  any  thing  in  dreams  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,  my  love,  a  great  deal  more  in  dreams 
than  knowledge-proud  people  like  to  confess." 

'  Well,  mamma,  I  think  so  too,"  said  Josey,  with  an 
approving  air. 

"  What  did  my  little  Josey  dream,  then  ?" 

"  Mamma,  I  dreamed  that  all  of  us  children,  me  and  you 
md  the  babies  and  Broke,  were  walking  up  the  '  Old  Turn- 
pike Road,'  and  that  you  carried  Virginia  in  your  arms. 
Well,  mamma,  I  thought  on  the  left  side  of  the  road,  in  and 
out  through  the  trees — oow  in  full  sight,  and  now  hidden — 
walked  a  great,  spotted  leopard  ;  and,  mamma,  it  seems  to 
me  I  can  see  him  now,  as  he  put  out  his  great,  strong,  thick 
fore  legs,  armed  with  such  claws — slowly  and  slylv,  in  and 
out,  and  through  the  trees,  as  he  kept  up  with  us  on  the 
grass,  and,  mamma,  his  fire-coal  eyes  were  always  on  you! 
Turn  which  way  you  would,  they  would  turn  after  von  ;  and 
I  tried  to  do  something,  but  I  couldn't — something  held  me 
tight  and  fast,  though  all  the  time  I  was  walking  along. 
Well,  I  thought  we  sat  down  to  a  feast  in  the  open  glade — 
just  as  we  did  that  day,  mamma — and  I  thought  I  turned 
to  see  if  the  great  leopard  was  after  us — just  in  time  to  see 
his  great  tail  fly  up  in  the  air  and  swell,  and  his  eyes  strike 
tire  as  he  made  one  bound  and  sprang  upon  you,  mamma  ! 
— then  I  went  to  throw  myself  upon  him,  and  I  woke  up 
mid  found  it  was  a  dream,  and  that  I  was  in  bed.  I  was  so 
glad  it  was  a  dream,  you  know,  and  I  went  to  sleep  again 
and  forgot  it,  and  never  thought  of  it  until  just  this  mo- 
ment, mamma." 

"  And  now,  dear,  I  will  tell  you  how  much  meaning 
there  was  in  your  dream.  I  promised  to  take  you  to  see 
tno  menagerie  at  St.  Leonard's  this  morning,  and  to  give 
you  a  fesist  in  «.!«•  glade  of  the  Old  Road  this  evening,  and 


102  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

you  went  to  bed  thinking  of  leopards  and  festivals,  and 
dreamed  of  the  same." 

"Sure  enough,  mammal"  exclaimed  the  child,  delighted 
at  the  natural  interpretation. 

"  And  now  go  and  be  dressed,  darling,"  said  Mary.  "  For 
this  is  going  to  be  a  busy,  happy  day.  We  are  to  have 
ireakfast  early,  and  I  am  to  spend  two  hours  in  the  library 
with  father ;  then  I  am  to  take  all  the  children  riding,  and 
let  the  little  boy  see  the  menagerie,  and  then  return  to  din- 
ner, and  give  the  children  their  festival  this  afternoon  in 
the  forest  glade." 

"Oh,  mamma,  not  there  !" 

"  Yes,  Josey,  our  forest  glade  is  too  pretty  to  be  deserted, 
and  we  have  nearly  deserted  it — we  have  not  been  there 
since  May-day." 

"But  oh,  mamma,  I  shall  be  so  miserable  all  the 
time !" 

"  Shall  you  ?  Well,  then,  mamma  will  not  make  her 
little  boy  miserable  on  his  birthday  ;  we  will  go  down  the 
hill  and  have  our  feast  by  the  Grove  Spring." 

"  Yes,  yes !  that  is  a  nice  place,  we  will  go  there." 

"  There  now,  go,  Josey,  and  send  Coral  to  me,"  said 
Mary,  and  the  child  went. 

That  morning  again  Judge  Joseph  (as  he  was  often 
called)  stood  upon  the  vestibule  of  his  mansion,  while  the 
men,  women,  and  children  of  his  plantation  thronged  to 
welcome  him  home,  and  to  receive  of  his  bounty.  He  dis- 
missed them  pleased  and  grateful,  and  went  into  the  break- 
fast-room, where  Mary,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  awaited 
him.  When  breakfast  was  over,  he  called  her  into  his  study, 
ttn-'l  there  she  gave  him  an  account  of  what  she  called  her 
administration  of  the  government.  The  Judge  expressed 
himself  highly  gratified  with  his  little  regent;  and  as  she  sac 
by  him,  half  encircled  by  his  left  arm,  while  his  right  hana 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST.   103 

held  both  hers  caressingly,  he  asked  her  what  had  been  her 
regulations — her  recreations. 

"Gardening." 

"  No,  no,  that  is  work,  little  daughter,  though  very  plea- 
sant work,  I  grant." 

"  Well,  then,  reading." 

"  That  is  study,  my  Mary.  Come !  the  amusements,  now, 
o  ray  little  sixteen-year-old  matron." 

"  Well,  then,  riding  the  donkey,  driving  out  with  Josey 
and  the  babies,  walking — and  one  party,  a  May  festival  for 
the  neighbors'  children." 

"  And  no  visiting?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  went  once  to  see  old  Mrs.  Swan." 

"  An  old  lady  bedridden  with  paralysis  fifteen  years  ! — 
but,  my  love,  I  hope  you  received  visitors  at  home  ?' 

"  Yes.     Father  Lucas  was  here  twice  !" 

"  My  little  Mary  I  Look  up  here,  my  child  !  This  will 
not  do  !  housekeeping  and  fanning,  visiting  the  sick,  enter- 
taining priests,  and  waiting  on  children  !  So  passes  your 
life  !  The  life  of  Colonel  Carey's  orphaned  and  widowed 
daughter,  a  child  of  sixteen  years,  left  to  my  charge  !  So 
would  not  Charles  Carey  have  acted  by  a  child  of  mine  so 
left  to  him  1  Mary  !  you  must  go  out  more  among  young 
people.  You  must  gather  them  around  you  also.  You 
must  be  joyous,  my  child,  as  befits  your  youth  !" 

"  And  my  widowhood,  father !  Ah,  father,  I  can  be 
happy  1  You  know  I  can  ! — you  see  I  am  ;  but  it  is  with 
the  earnest  happiness  that  looks  to  Heaven  f^r  its  full  com- 
pleteness. I  can  be  happy,  father,  but  not  joyous,  except- 
in  sympathy  with  the  innocent  gayety  of  childhood  !" 

"  Mary  !  such  solemn  renunciation  of  the  joys  of  social 
life  might  befit  a  mourner  of  seventy — not  one  of  sixteen. 
No,  no,  Mary  !  You  must  not  isolate  yourself.  I  have 
other  and  happier  views  and  hopes  for  you  !  Besides, 


104  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

society  in  a  sparse  neighborhood  like  this  has  large  claims 
upon  a  young  lady  of  your  rank  and  station. — Mary  !  much 
as  I  love  the  lost,  I  cast  no  selfish,  regretful  looks  back  to 
the  irrevocable  Past !  I  look  only  to  the  promising  Future 
I  look  to  see  what  good  it  has  in  store  for  you — no  longer 
iny  daughter-in-law,  but  my  daughter,  upon  whom  all  my 
hopes  are  set !" 

"  Father,  may  1  ever  be  a  daughter  to  you  !  I  will,  as 
long  as  you  will  let  me  !  I  will  never  leave  you,  dear 
father — Joseph's  father  ! — -for  I  can  never  forget ! — and 
the  greatest  good  I  aim  at  in  the  future,  lies  beyond  the 
grave  1 — a  reunion  with  Joseph  in  Heaven  !" 

And  Mary  dropped  her  head,  weeping,  upon  the  bosom 
of  her  father — a  little  while — and  then  lifting  her  head,  and 
shaking  off  the  sparkling  tears,  she  smiled,  as  she  said, 

"I  did  not  want  to  cry  to-day — it  is  Josey's  birthday 
— and  I  promised  him — oh,  sir  !  are  you  engaged  this 
morning?" 

"No,  Mary." 

"  Well,  then,  perhaps — will  you  take  me  and  the  children 
a  drive  to  St.  Leonard's,  and  let  Josey  see  the  menagerie 
that  is  staying  there  for  a  few  days — if  it  will  be  no  incon- 
venience to  you,  sir  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  my  Mary ;  on  the  contrary,  I  have 
business  there,  which  will  make  the  jaunt  perfectly  con- 
venient, as  well  as  agreeable." 

They  separated — the  Judge  to  order  the  carriage, — Mary 
to  prepare  her  children  for  the  drive. 

They  set  out  in  half-an-hour,  reached  St.  Leonard's  in 
another  half-hour's  rapid  drive  over  the  smooth  and  level 
new  road,  saw  the  menagerie,  did  the  shopping  and  the 
other  business,  and  returned  in  time  for  dinner.  When 
Mary  entered  her  chamber  to  change  her  dress  for  dinner, 
she  found  upon  her  dressing-table  severa1  packets,  containing 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST.   105 

dress  patterns,  shawls,  scarfs,  etc.,  of  light  and  cheerful 
material  and  a  note  from  her  father,  saying, 

"  My  Mary  must  now  lay  aside  her  mourning,  which  haa 
so  long  reproached  Divine  Providence,  and  dress  herself, 
as  nature  now  does,  in  grateful  brightness." 

Mary  could  not  wear  any  of  the  unmade  dresses,  but,  to 
comply  with  his  request,  she  arrayed  herself  in  a  graceful 
white  crape  dress,  and  threw  a  light  blue  silk  scarf — one 
of  the  new  purchases — over  her  shoulders,  and  went  down 
to  the  drawing-room. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
children  of  the  neighborhood  assembled  to  the  festival  of 
Prospect  Hall.  According  to  agreement,  Mary  took  them 
down  to  Grove-Spring  This  grove  was  rather  an  arm  of 
the  forest  than  an  isolated  grove,  and  was  freshened  and 
beautified  by  a  clear  spring,  to  which  it  gave  a  name.  Here 
were  swings  and  skipping  ropes, — battledores  and  shuttle- 
cock— graces,  and  every  other  conceivable  means  and 
appliance  of  youthful  and  childish  amusement ;  and  here,  in 
various  games — in  listening  to  stories — in  singing  songs,  and 
putting  enigmas — in  gathering  flowers  and  weaving  them 
into  wreaths,  or  in  tying  posies — in  chasing  butterflies,  and 
then  releasing  them  at  Mary's  request,  the  children  passed 
the  afternoon,  until  the  sun  began  to  decline  in  a  splendor 
cloudless  as  was  that  of  his  rising.  Then  the  feast  of  light 
bread  and  butter,  cakes,  fruit  and  milk,  was  spread  upon 
the  grass,  and  the  children  merrily  gathered  around  it. 
After  the  gay  and  noisy  meal  was  over,  Mary  proposed  to 
them  to  return  to  the  bouse,  and  prepare  to  go  home,  as 
their  parents  had  sent  carriages  for  them  :  but,  "A  dance  ! 
a  dance  first !  one  dance  !"  pleaded  Broke  Shields,  and  the 
girls  seconded  him  with  "  A  dance  !  just  one  dance  !"  And 
Mary,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile,  sent  for  "Uncle  Gulliver," 
who  played  the  fiddle.  "  Uncle  Gull"  soon  arrived,  and 


106  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

began  to  strum  and  twang  his  fiddle-strings,  "  tuning  the 
instrument,"  while  the  boys  took  partners. 

"  Mary  shall  dance  with  me — no  one  shall  but  Mary  1" 
exclaimed  Master  Broke  Shields  with  a  sultanic  authoihy. 
'  Give  me  Ginie,  Mary,  and  let  me  lay  her  in  the  carriage 
while  you  dance  with  me." 

Mary  shook  her  head  gently,  but  the  boy  persisted  while 
the  dance  was  delayed.  At  last,  fearing  to  detain  the 
children,  and  wishing  the  dance  over,  that  they  might  re- 
turn home  before  sunset,  with  a  second  sigh  and  smile, 
Mary  turned  and  placed  her  child  in  the  carriage,  when  the 
sharp  crack  of  a  rifle  was  heard.  Mary  sprang  suddenly 
forward,  and  sank  slowly,  slowly,  upon  her  knee,  then  upon 
her  side,  gasping,  with  difficulty — 

"  I  am  struck  ! — oh,  Heaven  !" 

At  the  first  report  of  the  pistol  the  children  had  flown  to 
Mary  for  protection  ;  they  now  remained  around  her,  pale 
and  silent,  with  tearless  grief  and  terror.  She  was  reclin- 
ing where  she  had  sunk,  lying  a  little  over  on  her  side,  and 
supporting  her  head  with  her  left  hand,  while  her  right 
hand  pressed  the  blue  silk  scarf  in  a  wisp  to  her  breast. 
Josey  knelt  by  her  side,  pale  and  still.  Broke  Shields  was 
running  up  the  hill  toward  the  house,  whither,  also,  the 
old  fiddler  hobbled  as  fast  as  he  could  go.  A  perfect 
silence  reigned,  until  Judge  Washington,  without  his  hat — 
his  hair  flying — was  seen  hurrying  down  the  hill,  followed 
by  Adam  Hawk,  Prince  William,  Polly,  and  others.  Then 
the  children  left  Mary,  and  hurried  off  to  meet  him  ;  each 
eager,  amid  fear  and  sorrow,  to  give  his  or  her  report. 
ScarcMy-  heeding  them,  Judge  Washington  hastened  to 
Mary — knelt — raised  her  upon  his  knee — looked,  with 
anguish,  in  her  face — her  face,  calm,  except  for  a  slight 
lontraction  of  the  brow,  and  quivering  of  the  lip,  that  be- 
'/rayed  her  silent  agony  and  patience. 


THE     SKELETON     AT     THE     FEAST.      107 

"Mary!  Mary  !— oh  !  my  beloved  child!  what  is  this  ?" 
he  groaned,  as  he  drew  her  into  his  arms,  and  lifted  her 
hand,  with  its  wisp  of  silk,  from  her.  The  blood  ooz,«d 
from  the  uncovered  wound.  Their  eyes  met — his,  full  of 
astonishment  and  grief;  hers,  full  of  patient  sorrow — both, 
full  of  inquiry. 

"  Yes,  father  !  what  is  this  ?"  she  faintly  asked. 

But  the  Judge  was  ghastly  pale,  and  shaking  as  with  an 
ague,  yet  he  gave  his  orders  with  promptness  and  precision, 
as  he  exclaimed,  hurriedly,  to  those  around — 

"A  sofa  !  a  sofa! — run  to  the  house,  Prince,  and  have  a 
sofa  brought.  Adam  I  hasten  immediately  for  Dr.  Me  Wal- 
ters. Polly  !  hurry  to  the  house,  and  prepare  a  bed,  and 
linen  bandages." 

Then  he  turned  to  Mary  himself,  trying  to  stanch  the 
wound,  by  pressing  the  scarf  to  it,  and  all  the  time  looking 
in  her  patient,  suffering  face,  with  unutterable  love  and  sor- 
row. All  astonishment,  indignation — all  wish  to  pursue 
and  punish  her  assassin — lost — completely  lost  in  the  one 
feeling  of  profound  tenderness  and  grief. 

The  sofa  was  soon  brought,  and  Mary  gently  laid  upon 
it,  to  be  carried  to  the  house.  As  she  was  about  thus  to 
leave  the  scene  of  rural  festivity,  she  turned  her  eyes  to  the 
little  wicker  carriage,  wherein  sat  the  two  infants — and  the 
Judge,  knowing  the  cause  of  her  anxiety,  said — "  Have  no 
care,  dearest  Mary,  I  will  see  them  safely  bestowed." 

And  Josey,  stopping  and  kissing  her,  ran  to  the  carriage, 
and  drew  it  along,  close  by  the  side  of  the  moving  sofa, 
and  so,  followed  by  all  the  grieved  and  terrified  children, 
they  returned  to  the  house.  Mary  was  taken  to  her  room, 
undressed,  and  laid  upon  the  bed  to  await  the  arrival  of  the 
physician.  And  Judge  Washington,  leaving  her  there  for 
a  few  minutes,  went  below,  and  hastily  dismissed  the  chil- 
dren to  their  homes,  lie  bad  scarcely  seen  the  last  little 


108  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

girl  into  the  carriage  that  had  been  sent  for  her,  before  the 
gig  of  the  physician  rolled  up  to  the  foot  of  the  piazza 
stairs,  and  Dr.  McWalters,  agitated  by  the  terrible  re- 
port that  had  been  carried  him,  jumped  out,  and  ran 
up  the  stairs,  where  Judge  Washington  stood  to  receive 
him. 

"  My  dear  Judge !  my  dear  sir !  I  trust  I  have  been 
misinformed — the  terror  and  confusion — Mrs.  Washing- 
ton—" 

"  Mary  has  been  wounded — come  and  see  her,  at  once," 
said  the  Judge,  with  forced  calmness,  and  led  the  way  into 
the  house,  and  up  into  Mary's  chamber. 

She  lay  upon  the  bed — pale,  still,  silent,  and  patient, 
with  both  hands  pressing  a  napkin  to  her  breast,  and  as 
before,  only  revealing  the  agony  of  her  wound  by  a  slight 
corrugation  of  the  eyebrows,  quivering  of  the  lips,  and 
spasmodic  twitching  of  her  hands. 

The  doctor  approached — and  while  addressing  a  few 
soothing  words  of  encouragement  and  hope,  examined  the 
wound.  Judge  Washington,  in  the  meantime,  standing  in 
the  shadow,  to  conceal  the  anguish  he  could  not  control. 
With  all  her  heroism,  Mary  winced  and  quivered  at  the 
slightest  touch  in  one  direction.  With  all  his  self-com- 
mand, the  doctor  could  not  help  betraying  the  increasing 
and  intense  anxiety  he  felt,  as  the  examination  progressed 
When  it  was  ended,  he  turned  to  the  Judge  and  said — 

"  Send  post  to  Baltimore,  for  Doctor ,"  (naming  the 

most  eminent  surgeon  of  the  country.) 

"  I  will  1  I  will ! — but,  good  Heaven  !  is  there  time  ?' 
added  the  Judge,  in  a  low  voice. 

''There  is  a  chance — let  there  be  not  a  moment's  delay." 

Down  hastened  Judge  Washington  to  the  stables,  and 
dispatched  Prince,  upon  the  fleetest  horse  in  the  stable, 
'tiling  him  to  ride  day  aud  night,  till  be  reached  hi*  des 


THE  SKELETON'  AT  THE  FEAST.   109 

tination,  for,  even  then,  it  would  take  two  days  and  nights 
before  the  surgeon  could  reach  Prospect  Hall. 

In  the  meantime,  Dr.  Me  Walters,  advised  and  assisted  by 
another  physician  of  some  local  celebrity,  used  his  best  skill 
for  her  relief.  But  all  that  night  Mary  lay  in  patient,  silent 
agony,  lest  she  should  give  unnecessary  pain  to  her  father, 
who  kept  his  watch  by  her  bedside,  in  the  deepest  trouble. 
When  he  would  bend  over  her,  and  discover  by  the  spasms 
of  anguish  that  would  traverse  her  face,  that  she  was  not 
asleep,  he  would  ask  : 

"  Mary,  my  love,  is  your  wound  painful  ?" 

She  would  willingly  have  answered  "No,"  or,  "Not 
much,"  but  truth  forbade  her,  and  she  said — 

"  Not  more  than  I  can  bear,  dear  father."  After  which, 
she  did  not  speak  again  for  hours,  but  lay,  with  her  two 
hands  held  to  her  bosom,  until  the  clock  struck  eleven  ;  then 
she  said  to  the  troubled  watcher  by  her  bed — "  Go  to  rest, 
dear  father — do  go  to  rest — let  no  one  lose  their  rest  for  me 
— it  will  do  no  good."  Her  fever  was  now  so  high,  and  her 
anxiety  so  great,  that  every  one  should  be  at  ease,  that  Judge 
Washington  had  to  soothe  her  by  the  promise  to  retire  to 
bed  as  soon  as  she  herself  should  be  asleep.  As  her  fever 
increased,  her  power  of  self-control  diminished — once  she 
suddenly  started  up  in  a  sitting  posture,  as  struck  by  a  new 
terror,  and  demanded,  rapidly — "Where  are  the  children? 
Where — where  are  the  children  ?  Are  they  safe  ?  Were  they 
hurt  ?  Oh,  let  me  see  them  !" 

Judge  Washington  put  his  arm  around  her,  spoke  to  her 
soothingly,  pointed  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  where  by  her 
own  directions  the  babies  had  been  placed  in  the  crib  at  sun- 
set, and  where  they  now  slept  sweetly  ;  then  he  gently  laid 
he"  down — and  tremblingly,  faintly  she  murmured — 

"  Thank  you,  dear  father — never  mind  my  nervousness — 
it  was  ouly  u  dream  ;  go,  go  to  rest — you  are  so  weary.  Oh  I 


110  THE     TWO     SISTERS 

let  no  one,  still  less,  you,  lose  their  rest  for  me,  it  will  do  no 
good." 

"  How  do  you  feel,  Mary  ?" 

"  Not — very — well  1  But  go  to  rest,  father,  I  will  try  to 
go  to  sleep."  And  she  closed  her  eyes  and  folded  her 
hands,  but  spasm  after  spasm  oft  traversed  that  highly- 
flushed  face,  and  the  little  hands  that  lay  together  on  her 
bosom  sometimes  started  and  fluttered  like  wounded  birds. 
Without  falling  asleep,  she  seemed  to  get  into  another  de- 
lirious dream,  for  suddenly  she  started  up  again — her  eyes 
wildly  staring,  and  exclaimed  with  breathless  haste — 
"  Josey  !  Josey  I  where  is  Josey  ? — was  he  struck?  is  he 
hurt  ?  Oh,  for  the  Virgin's  sake,  tell  me  !" 

Again  the  protecting  arms  were  around  her,  again  the 
reassuring  voice  soothed  her,  and  the  strong  but  gentle 
hands  laid  her  down  and  composed  her  to  such  rest  as  she 
could  take.  And  seeing  her  close  her  eyes,  the  Judge  arose 
softly  with  the  intention  of  leaving  the  room  and  summoning 
the  physician,  who  slept  in  the  house — and  was  stealing 
from  the  bedside  when  he  felt  the  light  clasp  of  a  child's 
hand  upon  him,  and  turning  he  saw  little  Josey — standing 
there  in  his  white  night-gown — who  said,  in  the  softest 
murmur — 

"  /  will  go  for  any  thing  or  anybody  you  want,  grandpa." 

The  Judge  looked  at  him  in  bewildered  surprise  for  a 
second,  and  then  murmured  low — 

"  You  here,  my  boy  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,  grandpa,  and  I  know — I  know  you  will  let 
me  stay — I  will  not  disturb  her,  grandpa!  I  will  not  even 
speak  to  her,  or  come  in  her  sight  for  fear  of  disturbing  her. 
1  dia  not  speak  to  her  even  when  I  heard  her  call  my  name, 
fy  fear  of  hurting  her.  Will  you  only  let  me  stay  here, 
dear  grandpa  ?" 

The  eyes  of  the  Judge  filled  with  tears,  and   silently 


THE     SKELETON     AT     THE     FEAST.          Ill 

pointing  the  boy  to  the  chamber  sofa  that  sat  against  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  be  left  the  room  in  quest  of  the  doctor. 
From  the  effects  of  a  cooling  and  composing  draught  ad- 
ministered by  the  physician,  Mary  slept  till  morning,  and  in 
the  morning  awoke  apparently  better. 

Early  in  the  morning,  Poll  Pepper  came  into  the  room  to 
remove  the  children  before  they  should  awake,  lest  their 
awakening  and  crying  should  disturb  Mary.  She  was  steal- 
ing away  softly  with  one  at  a  time,  and  hud  carried  off 
Magdalene  in  silence,  and  had  returned  and  was  bearing 
away  Virginia,  when  the  latter  awoke,  and  first  by  crowing, 
pointing,  and  other  pretty  coaxing  baby-ways,  pleaded  to 
be  taken  to  her  mother's  bed,  and  when  this  was  refused 
her,  she  demanded  it  eagerly  and  angrily  by  loud  screams 
and  violent  gestures  and  struggles.  This  aroused  Mary, 
•who,  holding  her  arras  from  the  bed,  said, 

"Give  her  to  me,  Coral." 

"  It  is  not  Coralline,  it's  me,  Miss  Mary — you  better  let 
me  take  the  child  out,  she'll  make  you  more  iller." 

"No,  bring  her  to  me,"  persisted  Mary,  her  arms  still 
extended  to  the  babe,  whose  little  hands  were  also  held  out 
to  her.  Polly  obeyed,  and  as  she  was  setting  the  child 
upon  the  bed,  "Where  is  Magdalene  ?"  asked  Mary. 

"I  took  her  away  first.  She  woke  and  held  out  her 
hands  to  go  to  you  the  first  thing,  but  I  'fused,  and  she  let 
me  carry  her  out  'out  'sistance  !  See  how  strong  natur  is 
to  be  sure — now  Madgie  know  incesestinctively  she  haddent 
nc  right  to  be  a  troublin  o'  you,  Miss  Mary,  and  so  after 
the  fuss  indictment  of  her  wishes  she  'plied  with  my  wishes, 
and  let  me  pnrwey  her  out  o'  the  room.  But  when  I  comes 
to  take  little  Miss  Ginny  out  that  was  another  guess  matter, 
Miss  Ginny  know  she  had  a  right  to  stay,  aud  so  she  sets 
up  a  squall  ?  See  what  natur  is  1" 

"Yes,  see  what  nature  is,"  said  Mury,  "  but  it  is  not  «? 


112  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

you  think,  Polly — nature  possesses  no  power  of  divination, 
and  Madgie  and  Ginnie  know  no  different  relation  of  each 
other  to  me.  But,  Madgie  is  very  easily  managed,  while 
Ginnie  takes  her  sanguine,  passionate  temperament  from  my 
mother's  family,  the  red-haired  Haroldsens — children  of  the 
Dane  Harold,  the  Violent.  But  Madgie  must  not  suffer  for 
her  meekness — go  bring  her  to  me,  Polly." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Mary—" 

"  Polly,  I  have  no  breath  to  argue  with — go — " 

Polly  unwillingly  left  the  room  on  that  errand,  turning 
her  eyes  to  the  last  upon  her  young  mistress,  who  lay  back 
upon  her  pillow,  holding  one  arm  feebly  around  Virginia. 

When  she  returned  to  the  room  with  Magdalene,  the  first 
thing  she  saw  was  that  Virginia  had  crawled  up  quite  to  her 
mother's  face,  and  stooping  over  was  trying  intently  to  do 
something.  Approaching  the  bed,  she  saw  that  Mary  had 
fainted  from  exhaustion,  and  that  the  child,  with  the  impres- 
sion of  her  being  asleep,  was  trying  with  its  little  fingers  to 
lift  her  eyelids.  Polly,  with  a  look  of  dismay,  seized  the 
infant,  and  as  she  carried  them  both  (Ginney  screaming  and 
kicking  violently)  from  the  room — "  out  of  her  grief  and 
impatience,"  she  exclaimed, 

"Indeed,  it  is  no  manner  o'  use  fer  any  singly  soul  to  try 
to  do  a  singly  thing  for  that  young  gall,  'deed  an'  'deed  it 
aint — 'cause  she's  'termined  for  to  kill  herself,  an'  Marster 
Jesus  knows  it !" — and  setting  both  the  screaming  children 
(Ginnie  screaming  for  anger,  and  Madgie  for  sympathy) 
• — down  upon  the  carpet  in  the  parlor,  she  hurried  off  for  the 
doctor,  who  had  not  yet  left  the  house,  and  for  the  Judge, 
who  had  for  about  an  hour  been  lying  down  to  take  some  sleep. 

Both  soon  entered  the  chamber.  Mary  had  recovered 
from  her  faintness ;  but  the  presence  of  her  children,  as  well 
as  all  things  that  could  in  the  slightest  degree  disturb,  was 
forbidden  her 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST.   118 

From  that  hour,  however,  not  perhaps  in  the  least  from 
that  cause,  she  grew  worse — her  wound  became  very  painful, 
and  her  fever  rose  very  high.  Yet  until  she  became  frenzied 
with  pain  and  fever,  scarcely  a  complaint  escaped  her  patient 
bosom.  All  day  she  raved  in  high  delirium.  Judge  Wash- 
ington watched  in  speechless  grief  by  her  bedside.  Toward 
night,  though  still  delirious,  her  visions  lost  their  terrible 
aspect,  and  as  the  hours  passed  on,  she  became  cheerful, 
even  joyous. 

She  was  again  in  the  home  of  her  childhood,  full  of  life, 
joy,  and  electricity,  as  she  was  before  the  mainspring  of  her 
heart  had  been  broken.  Now  she  would  call  in  merry 
tones  to  Joseph  her  lost  husband,  and  challenge  him  to  a 
game — now  she  would  cheer  on  her  fancied  steed  to  race 
against  some  fancied  rival.  Now  her  light  laugh  would  ring 
merrily  through  the  room.  And  so  it  continued  neaily  all 
night.  And  the  doctor  knew  that  the  pain  that  had  origi- 
nated the  fever  and  delirium  was  gone,  while  the  delirium 
remained  ;  therefore,  he  looked  graver  and  more  troubled 
than  ever,  and  no  longer  evinced  any  anxiety  for  the  arrival 
of  the  "eminent  surgeon."  Toward  morning  she  grew 
gradually  composed.  At  dawn  she  was  asleep,  and  the 
physician  prevailed  on  Judge  Washington,  who  fondly 
believed  in  her  amendment,  to  go  and  lie  down.  When 
the  sun  arose  and  shone  broadly  and  brightly  in  upon  her 
bed,  Dr.  Me  Walters  got  up  and  drew  the  curtain  over  the 
dawn  window,  and  returning  to  the  bedside,  saw  that  his 
patient  was  wide  awake,  though  quiet. 

"How  are  you,  Mrs.  Washington  ?" 

"Better,  I  thank  you,  doctor.  Oh,  very  much  better, 
indeed.  I  think  I  have  had  a  whole  good  night's  sleep  and 
pleasant  dreams,  very  pleasant  dreams  !  I  feel  so  well  and 
nice  this  morning.  Not  the  slightest  uneasiness  anywhere. 
You  are  a  magician,  doctor !  Doctor,  I  think  such  people 


114  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

ought  to  be  very  grateful  to  their  physicians.  /  am !"  and 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  Dr.  McWalters,  who  took  and 
pressed  it  tenderly,  while  turning  away  his  head  to  conceal 
the  tears  that  rose  to  his  eyes. 

"I  wonder  if  father  got  a  good  night's  sleep  last  night  ? 
— he  sat  up  so  late  the  night  before." 

"  He  is  not  up  yet,"  replied  the  physician,  evasively. 

"And  the  children  ;  I  wonder  if  they  slept  quietly  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  physician,  confidently. 

"  I  think,  doctor,  that  after  breakfast  I  may  be  able  to 
get  up  and  sit  in  the  chair — may  I  not  ?  My  dear  father 
will  not  be  so  troubled  nor  think  me  so  ill  if  he  sees  that  I 
am  able  to  sit  up.  May  I  not  sit  up,  doctor?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Washington,  I  will  talk  to  you  more  of 
that  after  breakfast." 

"  One  more  question,  doctor.  I  may  have  my  children, 
to-day  ?" 

"Yes — yes — yea,"  he  said,  talking  partly  to  himself, 
partly  to  her.  "Yes — you  may  have  the  children  in  to-day." 

Just  at  that  moment  a  rap  was  heard  at  the  door,  and 
Dr.  McWalters  arose,  went  to  it,  spoke  to  one  without  a 
few  moments,  and  closing  the  door,  returned  to  his  patient'a 
bedside. 

"  Who  has  arrived,  doctor,  did  he  say  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Doctor ,  the  eminent  surgeon  from  Baltimore." 

"  Ah  !  we  do  not  want  him  now,  do  we,  sir  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  family  physician,  speaking  as  before 
half  abstractedly. 

"  But  he  must  be  liberally  remunerated  for  his  trouble, 
however,  and — by  the  way,  breakfast  must  be  hurried  for 
him,  and  he  must  be  conducted  to  a  room,  as  no  doubt  he 
has  ridden  all  night  and  would  like  to  refresh  himself  by  a 
bath  and  a  change  of  clothes.  Doctor,  will  you  touch  the 
bell — I  want  the  housekeeper." 


THE     SKELETON     AT     THE     FEAST.     115 

"  No,  no,  dear  child,  you  must  not  weary  yourself.  I  will 
go  down  and  put  the  traveler  in  charge  of  the  housekeeper." 
And  so  saying,  the  doctor  arose  and  went  out,  as  much  to 
give  vent  to  the  emotion  he  could  no  longer  control  as  for 
any  other  purpose. 

Soon  after  this,  Polly  Pepper  entered  the  room  to  set  it 
to  rights,  inquired  of  her  young  mistress  how  she  found 
herself,  and  expressed  herself  highly  delighted  that  she  was 
"doing  so  well,"  but  heaved  a  profound  sigh  nevertheless. 

"  Where  is  Coral  ?  I  have  not  seen  her  since  I  have 
been  sick,"  said  Mary. 

"  She  is  down  stairs,"  said  Polly ;  but  she  did  not  add, 
as  she  might  have  added,  "ill  of  another  brain  fever." 

Polly  had  nearly  completed  her  task  of  arranging  the 
room,  bathing  her  young  mistress's  face  and  hands,  etc., 
when  the  family  physician  entered,  introducing  Doctor 

,  from  Baltimore.  Mary  received  her  new  physician 

with  a  smile,  begged  him  to  take  the  arm-chair  at  the  head 
of  the  bed,  and  apologized  to  him  for  what  she  called  the 
unnecessary  alarm  and  solicitude  of  her  friends  which  had 
caused  him  to  take  so  hasty  and  unpleasant  a  journey. 
Then  she  inquired  if  he  had  breakfasted.  The  doctor  had, 
in  company  with  Dr.  McWalters  and  the  Judge,  who,  by 
the  way,  was  now  below,  awaiting  in  high  hope  the  opinion 
of  the  new  surgeon  upon  his  daughter's  case.  The  two 
physicians  spent  half  an  hour  by  the  bedside  of  the  sick, 
and  then  retired  to  the  library  in  consultation  a  few  mo- 
ments before  entering  the  parlor  occupied  by  the  Judge. 

In  the  meantime,  Polly  Pepper,  having  left  her  young 
mistress's  room,  went  down  to  carry  the  good  news  to  the 
Judge,  who,  as  soon  as  he  saw  her  enter,  exclaimed  cheer- 
fully, 

"  Well,  Polly,  well — you  have  come  to  tell  me  that  my 
child  is  a  great  deal  better." 


116  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  0  yes,  young  marse,  Miss  Mary  is  a  great  deal  better 
indeed.  I  hearn  the  doctor  tell  her  she  might — 'haps  she 
might — don't  let  me  falsify  the  truffe — Vmps  she  might  even 
set  up  to-day ;  and  to  be  sure  she  might  even  have  the 
children  in  the  room  ;  'deed,  I  hearn  him  say  myself  that 
there  wa'nt  no  nse  in  the  new  city  doctor  comin'  at  all, 
now." 

"Thank  Heaven  !  Oh  thank  Heaven  1"  fervently  exclaimed 
the  Judge.  "  Has  she  taken  any  thing  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  bat  I  thought  I'd  'quire  of  the  doctor  first 
what  I  might  give,  and  so  I  jes'  did ;  and  so  he  says,  '  any 
thing  she  wishes,'  and  so,  young  marse,  I'm  gwine  to  take 
her  up  a  cup  of  tea,  a  saft-biled  egg,  an'  some  water-crack- 
ers, as  she  was  a  wantin'  of,  sir.'1 

"  She  asked  for  that  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  young  marse." 

"  Then  she  must,  indeed,  be  very  much  better,  thank 
Heaven!  Oh  thank  Heaven!  Do  not  keep  her  waiting; 
hasten,  Polly,  hasten,  and  do  her  bidding." 

Polly  left  the  room,  and  the  Judge  walked  the  floor  in 
the  restlessness  of  joy ;  impatient,  now,  to  hear  the  report 
of  the  physicians,  only  that  after  it  he  might  hasten  to 
Mary's  bedside,  and  congratulate  her  on  her  convalescence. 

Not  soon  enough  for  his  impatience,  but  soon  the  door 
swung  open  ;  and  the  Judge,  with  a  stately  joyousness, 
advanced  to  meet  the  two  doctors,  but  checked  himself 
half-way,  smitten  by  the  gloom  of  their  faces  with  a  vague 
but  painful  presentiment.  The  eminent  surgeon  withdrew 
himself,  and  remained  standing  by  the  corner  of  the  mantel- 
piece ;  and  the  family-physician,  taking  Judge  Washing- 
ton's hand  with  an  air  of  profound  and  respectful  commis- 
eration, invited  him  to  a  seat  by  the  window,  and  placed 
himself  in  a  chair  by  his  side,  saying,  while  he  still  held  his 
hand, 


T  H  K     S  K  E  L  K  T  O  N     A  T     T  H  E     F  ^  AST.      117 

"My  dear  friend,  my  honored  friend,  Judge  Washington, 
you  are  not  new  to  grief.  You  possess  great  fortitude,  I 
know,  yet  how  shall  I  tell  you  that  which  I  have  to  com- 
urinicate  ?  Your  Mary — " 

"  Well,  well,  in  Heaven's  name  go  on." 

"  She  cannot  survive  many  hours ;  mortification  has 
taken  place." 

Judge  Washington  suddenly  withdrew  his  hand  from  the 
ciasp  of  the  doctor's,  got  up,  sat  down  again,  pale  as  ashes, 
covered  his  face  with  both  hands,  and  only  betrayed  by  the 
heaving  of  his  chest,  and  the  shuddering  of  his  whole  framo, 
how  heavily  the  sudden  blow  had  fallen  under  which  he 
had  to  bear  up. 

At  last  he  lifted  up  his  head,  and  asked, 

"  Does  she  know  it  ?  does  Mary  know  it  ?" 

"Ah,  no,  sir ;  the  approach  of  death  has  brought  her 
ease  ;  she  thinks  she  is  better;  she  talks  of  rising — " 

"  How  long  may  she  live  ?" 

"  On  earth,  not  many  hours." 

"Hours — only  hours!11 

Again  the  Judge  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
struggled  to  subdue  his  great  emotion.  When  he  lifted 
his  head  agnin,  the  doctor  said  : 

"  If  there  is  any  thing  that  you  could  wish  Mrs.  Wash- 
ington to  do,  or  that  she  could  wish  to  do — any  disposition 
of  the  property,  she — " 

"  Peace  !  peace  !  She  holds  no  property ;  she  is  uot 
yet  seventeen  years  old.  But  yet  Mary  must  not  be  de- 
ceived :  she  must  be  permitted  to  meet  death  consciously  ; 
Mary  has  faith,  hope,  and  love  enough  to  cast  out  fear  for 
herself  or  the  helpless  ones  she  leaves  behind  her.  Doctor, 
Buffer  me  to  leave  you." 

The  physician  lifted  and  pressed  his  hand  respectfully 
again,  and  the  Judge  slowly  and  heavily  withdrew  from  the 


118  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

room.  He  went  into  his  chamber,  knelt,  bowed  his  face 
upon  his  hands,  and  prayed.  Strengthened,  then  he  aiose, 
and  calmly  passed  into  Mary's  room. 

The  chamber  wore  the  cheerful  air  of  a  convalescent's 
sick  room.  The  bed  was  made,  the  furniture  neatly  ar- 
ranged, fresh  cedar  branches  in  the  fireplace,  fresh  ftowei'3 
on  the  mantel-piece,  and  near  the  bay-window — "the  dawu 
window," — iu  the  large,  blue  damask-colored  arm-chair, 
sat  Mary,  surrounded  by  her  children.  She  wore  the  thin 
muslin  wrapper  which  the  warm  July  weather  permitted, 
and  her  chestnut  hair  was  smoothly  parted  over  her  fore- 
nead,  and  carried  back  under  the  edge  of  a  fine  lace  cap. 
She  looked  wan,  fragile,  faint,  but  inexpressibly  beautiful, 
as  she  leaned  sideways  toward  the  corner  of  her  chair,  and 
resting  her  elbow  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair,  leaned  her 
head  upon  her  hand,  and  watched  and  talked  to  her  chil- 
dren. Magdalene  and  Virginia  were  sitting  on  the  carpet, 
playing,  and  Josey  was  standing  by  her  side,  wearing  the 
most  serious  countenance  of  all. 

As  Judge  Washington  entered  the  room,  he  slightly 
started  at  seeing  Mary  really  up,  and  an  expression  of  in- 
tolerable pain  passed  rapidly  over  his  countenance. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  him,  Mary  lifted  her  head  and  smil- 
ingly held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  came  and  took  it, 
drew  a  chair  to  her  side,  and  sat  down. 

"  How  does  my  dear  child  feel  this  morning  ?"  he 
asked. 

"  Well,  so  well,  dear  father,  that  you  must  not  look  so 
pitifully  upon  me  ;  I  feel  very  well." 

"Well,  Mary?   Well?" 

"  Considering,  you  know,  father.  My  wound  feels  per- 
fcctly  easy,  I  only  feel  faint,  and  I  do  not  think  that  my 
circulation  is  quite  healthy  yet ;  my  hands  and  feet  are  a 
little  cold,  and  my  breath  is  not  free,  quite.  But  now  that 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST.   119 

I  have  had  my  bed  made,  I  shall  lie  down,  and  shall  soon 
be  right." 

Judge  Washington,  to  conceal  his  deep  emotion,  and  to 
gain  time  for  composure,  stooped  a-nd  lifted  Virginia  to 
his  knee,  who  immediately  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck 
and  kissed  him.  Mary's  head  had  sunk  again  upon  he> 
hand,  and  a  grayness  crept  slowly  over  her  face  and  van 
ished.  She  said,  speaking  faintly  as  before : 

"  I  see,  father,  you  often  lift  Virginia  to  your  knee,  and 
never  Magdalene  ;  don't  you  like  little  Madgie  ?" 

In  reply  to  this  the  Judge  lifted  Madgie  to  his  other  knee, 
where  the  child  sat  quietly. 

"Will  you  not  lie  down,  dear  Mary?"  he  next  inquired. 

"No,  not  yet,  father.  I  said  I  would  sit  up  half  au 
hour ;  I  have  only  been  up  a  quarter ;  and  indeed  I  prefer 
sitting  here.  Father,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  as  if  I  were 
sick,  while  I  am  sitting  here." 

"  Still,  my  dear  Mary,  I  think  it  is  not  well  to  exhaust 
your  small  strength." 

"  Dear  father,"  replied  Mary,  speaking  slowly  and  faintly, 
"  I  am  not  sure,  after  all,  that  it  is  sitting  here  which 
wearies  me.  I  rest  very  well  leaning  so — and — somehow, 
father,  I  have  a  strange,  strange  depression  of  spirits  at 
the  idea  of  going  back  to  bed ;  please  let  me  sit  here  as  long 
as  possible." 

"  Sit  as  long  as  you  like,  my  beloved  child,"  replied  the 
Judge. 

It  was  hard,  hard,  calmly  to  sit  there  and  to  see  the  rapid 
approach  of  death  to  its  unconscious  victim. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  tenderly,  calmly,  for  he  had  now  mas- 
tered himself;  "Mary,  my  child,  if  God  were  to  call  you  to 
himself,  should  you  be  resigned  to  go  ?" 

"  Resigned,  dear  father,  resigned  to  obey  tli£  summons 
of  my  heavenly  Father !  That  is  scarcely  a  loving  or  a 


120  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

faithful  word,"  said  Mary,  as  a  holy  radiance  illumined  her 
beautiful  countenance  an  instant  and  vanished.  "  Yet, 
father,  were  He  to  summon  me  away,  I  should  not  go  all 
in  gladness ;  oh  no !  how  could  I,  and  leave  my  children 
and  you,  father  ?  No,  I  should  feel  in  death  somehow  as 
I  felt  in  marriage — joyous  and  sad — sad  to  leave  these  I 
love — joyous  to  go  to  those  I  love,"  concluded  Mary,  per- 
haps not  without  some  suspicion  of  the  bearing  of  his  words, 
for  she  became  very  serious. 

"  Mary,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand,  and  looking  gravely 
and  tenderly  in  her  eyes — those  meek  blue  eyes  that  looked 
so  lovingly  up  to  meet  his  own — those  mildly  questioning 
eyes,  so  soon  to  be  closed  forever.  "  Mary,"  he  said,  "  were 
God  to  call  you  to  himself,  could  you  not  trust  your  be- 
loved ones  to  me,  fearlessly  ?" 

"Yes,  father,  oh  yes,  father!"  she  replied,  without  with- 
drawing her  eyes — nay,  they  became  more  intense,  more 
searching  in  expression,  and  she  inquired  calmly  :  "  What 
did  you  mean  by  that  question,  father  ?" 

He  replied  first  by  a  long  and  tender  gaze,  deep,  deep 
into  those  asking  eyes — and  then  winding  his  arm  around 
her  and  drawing  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  he  replied  : 

"  Mary,  my  Mary,  it  is  even  so ;  God  has  called  you  to 
himself." 

Mary's  hands  flew  suddenly  up  before  her,  and  holding 
them  thus,  she  shrunk  away  as  one  does  before  a  sudden 
burst  of  too  much  light. 

Her  adopted  child  heard  all,  and  stood  motionless  and 
olorless  o»  her  other  side ;  but  nobody  noticed  him. 

Judge  Washington  bent  toward  her. 

"  Mary,  my  dear  child." 

"  Father." 

"  How  is  it  with  you,  my  Mary  ?" 

"  Stunned   and   blinded  by  too  sudden,  too  much  light, 


THE     SKELETON     AT     THE     FEAST.         121 

but  it  will  soon  he  over,  father."  And  soon  it  was — and 
she  turned  her  calm  face  to  him  and  said  :  "  They  may  lay 
me  on  the  bed  now,  father  ;  perhaps  I  may  live  longer  so, 
and  I  have  somewhat  to  say  to  all." 

Judge  Washington  summoned  assistance,  and  she  was 
conveyed  to  bed.  Josey  followed  in  the  same  quiet  manner 
and  stood  silently  by  her  side.  She  saw  him,  and  turning 
hei  face  toward  him,  held  out  her  hand  ;  he  took  it,  and 
with  an  effort — a  mighty  effort,  for  a  little  child — swallowed 
the  sobs  and  forced  back  the  tears  that  would  have  burst 
forth. 

"  You  heard  what  grandpa  said,  Josey  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"Josey,  listen  to  me,  dear,  and  try  to  remember  my 
words,  and  you  will  take  their  meaning  by-and-by.  You 
and  I,  Josey,  will  never  be  separated  by  death,  because  we 
know  each  other  and  love  each  other  so  much.  When  I 
have  disappeared  from  your  sight,  hearing,  and  touch,  Josey, 
seek  me  with  your  love,  and  your  love  will  find  me  ;  often 
will  I  come  to  you,  Josey,  but  you  must  have  faith  to  re- 
ceive me  ;  you  will  not  see  or  hear  me,  but  in  happy,  peace- 
ful, loving  emotions  ;  your  spirit  will  feel  me,  if  you  will 
only  believe  it ;  you  will  believe  it.  I  shall  not  come  from 
the  spirit-world,  and  stand  by  the  side  of  an  unhappy,  un- 
believing child,  whose  want  of  faith  shuts  me  from  his  spirit. 
Ah  !  I  do  not  know  how  to  make  you  know.  Shut  yonr 
eyes,  Josey,  and  turn  yourself  toward  the  south  windows ; 
now,  Josey,  can  you  see  the  sun  ?" 

"  No,  mamma." 

"  But  you  feel  the  warmth,  and  know  thai  he  is  shin- 
ing?" 

"  Yes,  mamma.'' 

"So,  Josey,  to  the  senses  of  your  body,  and  even  to  the 
faculties  of  your  mind,  I  shall  be  lost ;  but  to  the  purest 


122  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

love  and  highest  aspirations  of  your  spirit  I  shall  be  ever 
present.  And  when  you  sit  or  walk  apart,  adoring  God, 
loving  his  children,  and  remembering  with  tenderness  'little 
mother,'  and  you  almost  feel  her  presence  in  your  heart, 
know  that  it  is  really  so,  that  she  is  really  there,  watching 
over  you,  loving  you,  teaching  you  still — teaching  you  Di- 
vine truths  perhaps  she  has  learned  in  Heaven  ;  that  she  is 
nearer  to  you  than  ever  she  was  in  the  body,  because  she 
communes  with  your  inmost  self.  You  do  not  understand 
this  truth  now—" 

"But  I  have  got  it  in  my  heart,  mamma,  and  I  love 
it." 

"  And  mamma  will  make  it  dearer  to  you,  when  she 
comes  constantly  from  God  to  her  child.  Oh,  little  one  1 
I  have  told  a  deep  truth — one  that  I  dared  not  tell  to  many 
gray-haired  men,  good  and  wise  though  they  might  be." 
She  paused  from  exhaustion — then  seeing  her  father  ap- 
proach soon  after  this,  she  held  her  hand  out  to  him,  and 
as  he  stooped  very  low  over  her,  she  took  his  face  between 
her  hands,  and  looking  in  his  countenance,  at  first  with  pro- 
foundest  sympathy  and  grief,  through  which  at  last,  faith, 
hope,  and  love  shone  as  shines  the  sun  through  clouds,  she 
said  :  "  Poor,  worn  face  !  sorely-tried  heart !  bear  up  ;  God 
is  in  this  as  in  all  things." 

But  his  fortitude  for  a  moment  was  quite  overcome,  and 
he  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands,  and  wept,  after  gasp- 
ing: 

"Oh,  Mary  I  so  good,  so  young  1"  and  unable  to  stand, 
he  sank  down  in  the  chair  by  her  side. 

Mary  watched  him  for  a  while,  and  then  said,  in  a  voics 
faint  but  clear  and  sweet  as  angels'  whispers  : 

"  Yes,  life  has  been  short,  but  very  sweet  to  me.  The 
earth  has  been  so  sublime  with  its  high  mountains,  its  deep 
valleys,  and  its  great  waters  ;  so  glorious  with  its  rising  and 


THE     SKELETON     AT.  THE     FEAST.       123 

its  setting  sun  ;  so  beautiful  with  its  forests,  fields,  and 
flowers ;  so  lovely  with  its  little  children.  Oh,  yes,  the 
world  has  been  so  beautiful — friends  have  been  so  kind — 
life  has  been  so  sweet  to  me  ;  and  when  those  dear  ones, 
who  loved  life  with  me,  passed  away,  they  drew  my  vision 
after  them  to  a  higher,  sublimer,  more  beautiful  life  above  ; 
and  now  I  go  after  them.  But  now  I  go  to  God.  Think 
you,  because  I  go  to  God,  I  leave  you  ?  Ah,  no,  dear 
father,  no.  I  shall  pass  from  your  sight,  to  enter  your 
soul  ;  to  come  into  a  closer  communion  with  you,  if  you  will 
receive  me — in  every  gentle  thought  of  me  receive  me.  Oh ! 
I  will  come  to  you,  bearing  mffny  a  happy  inspiration.  You 
shall  have  more  faith,  and  hope,  and  love,  because  I  go  to 
God.  I  will  be  often  near  you,  and  when  you  see  my  baby 
smile  in  her  sleep,  believe  that  it  is  awakened  by  her  spirit- 
mother's  kiss.  When  you  dream  of  me,  believe  that  I  have 
been  really  with  you.  Do  you  hear,  my  Josey  ?  Heaven 
and  its  angels  are  not  far  up  in  the  sky,  as  little  children 
are  misled  to  believe ;  Heaveu  and  its  angels  are  all  around 
about  us." 

She  paused  from  faintness,  but  her  radiant  countenance 
was  still  eloquent  with  all  that  her  words  had  failed  to  com- 
plete. 

It  looked  not  like  a  chamber  of  death.  The  two  little 
ones  were  playing  on  the  carpet,  varying  baby  sport  some- 
times with  baby  wrangles  that  were  soon  over,  and  often 
their  crow  and  laugh  would  ring  pleasantly  through  the 
room  ;  but  at  last  they  grew  restless,  and  Josey  went  to 
quiet  them  ;  and,  not  succeeding,  Judge  Washington  touched 
the  bell,  and  summoned  Polly  to  carry  them  out.  As  she 
was  passing,  however,  Mary  faintly  called  her  to  bring 
them  to  her,  and  asked  her  father  to  raise  her  up  in  his 
firms.  He  did  so,  and  the  babes  were  brought  and  set  upon 
the  bed  before  her.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  the  mother's 


124  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

heart  of  flesh  melted,  and  tears  arose  to  her  eyes,  and  over- 
flowed her  cheeks ;  folding  her  arms  feebly  around  them 
both,  and  dropping  her  head  upon  them,  she  sobbed  : 

"  Oh,  children  !  children  !  Oh,  children  !  children  !"  and 
this  she  said  many  times.  After  having  kissed  Magdalene, 
she  motioned  Polly  to  take  her,  and  then  looking  long  and 
earnestly  in  Virginia's  little  face,  she  said  : 

"  Oh,  Ginnie !  Ginnie  !  that  you  could  remember  me  ! 
Look  at  mother,  oh  Ginnie  !  Let  her  try  to  leave  her 
features  on  your  heart ;  for  oh,  Ginnie  !  never  till  now  did 
I  feel  how  much  beyond  all  things  on  earth  or  in  heaven, 
save  God,  I  love  you,  littl^  one  !  Oh,  Ginnie !  remember 
me,  mine  only  one  1"  she  said  gazing  profoundly  in  her 
countenance,  if,  as  in  desperate  love,  she  hoped  to  leave 
upon  the  infant's  soul  the  impress  of  its  mother's  face. 
Then  fondly  again  and  again  kissing  the  child,  whose  heart 
seemed  to  have  received  what  its  intellect  missed,  she  per- 
mitted her  to  be  taken  away,  and  sank  back  into  the  arnw 
of  her  father,  almost  dead.  He  laid  her  gently  on  the 
pillow,  and  resumed  his  seat  by  her  side.  When  she  was 
somewhat  recovered  again  she  felt  a  gentle  clasp  on  her 
hand,  and  turning  her  eyes,  she  saw  Josey,  who  said  to  her  : 

"  Ginnie  shall  remember  you,  mamma — she  knows  you 
now  so  well,  and  your  portrait  is  so  much  like  you,  that  I 
will  never  let  her  forget  you.  I  will  keep  up  the  memory  ; 
every  morning,  before  she  says  her  prayers,  she  shall  see 
your  portrait ;  every  night  before  she  sleeps,  shall  she  see  it, 
mamma.  Every  day  will  I  talk  to  her  of  you,  and  when  she 
loves  me  most,  I  will  bid  her  remember  you,  dear  little 
mother." 

She  pressed  the  little  hand  that  clasped  hers,  and  said, 

"  Josey,  in  the  course  of  nature,  grandpa  may  go  tc 
heaven  before  Ginnie  grows  up. — You  are  a  little  child, — 
oh,  I  mean  because  vour  are  a  little  child,  I  leave  Ginnie 


THE     SKELETON     AT     THE     FEAST.      125 

in  your  care.  You  are  not  much  older  than  she  is,  and  there- 
fore you  may  go  all  through  life  together.  I  have  so  much 
trust  in  you,  so  much  hope  of  you,  Josey  !  Love  my  child, 
and  make  her  good  1" 

"  Love  me  from  Heaven,  and  make  me  good  enough  to 
do  it,  mamma." 

All  day  her  father  and  her  adopted  child  remained  with 
ser — all  day,  until — according  to  the  custom  of  the  church 
in  which  she  had  been  brought  up — the  priest  came  to 
administer  the  last  consolations  of  religion  to  one  whom 
God  himself  had  comforted  already. — The  priest  came  to 
impart  faith  aud  strength  for  tBe  trial  to  the  passing  angel, 
and  went  away  with  a  purer  heart,  and  a  higher  faith,  and 
greater  courage. 

Bruin  had  been  in  to  see  her. 

"It  is  better,"  he  said,  "than  a  thousand  learned  dis- 
courses on  the  Evidences  of  Christianity,  this  passing  away 
of  Mary — never  did  I  feel  immortality  as  now." 

Her  father  and  her  boy  returned  to  the  room,  where 
they  remained  all  night.  Her  children  were  brought  in  for 
the  last  time  before  they  were  put  to  bed.  Then  she  kissed 
and  blessed,  and  resigned  them  with  an  angel  smile. — She 
was  sinking  fast,  but  the  spirit  grew  brighter  and  brighter 
as  the  clay  fell  away. — Sometimes  she  spoke,  but  though 
the  words  were  faint  in  sound,  they  were  strong  and  hopeful 
in  import.  Toward  morning  she  became  silent,  and  lay 
holding  Josey's  hand  while  her  father  held  her  other  hand. 

The  day  was  dawning  clearly,  brightly  through  the  East 
window  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  Then  she  began  to  speak 
again,  and  some  one  said  she  was  delirious ;  when,  drawing 
her  hand  from  her  father's  clasp,  she  pointed  to  her  dawn 
window,  through  which  the  newly-risen  sun  was  pouring  a 
broad,  bright  ray  from  the  eastern  horizon  to  her  bed,  and 
said  while  a  divine  radiance  illuminated  he*  countenance. 


126  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Behold  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  !  Behold  DEATH  the 
Beautiful  !  the  Deliverer!  Behold  the  path  of  glory  down 
which  he  comes  from  God  !" 

"  God"  was  her  last  word  ;  slowly,  slowly,  her  arm  fell — 
slowly,  slowly,  the  light  faded  from  her  countenance,  as  the 
invisible  angel  released  and  bore  her  invisible  to  "  God  P 

The  bereaved  father  calmly  composed  the  head  an>l 
folded  the  hands  of  the  beautiful  sleeper  ;  knelt  and  prayed 
a  few  moments,  and  rising,  left  the  chamber,  to  send  in 
those  whose  sad  duty  it  was  to  perform  the  last  offices  of 
the  living  to  the  dead. 

Josey  remained  statue-like  by  the  bedside,  until  one  of 
the  women  took  him  gently  by  the  hand,  and  leading  him 
to  the;  door,  put  him  out  and  closed  it  behind  him. 

There  he  stood  a  moment,  bewildered  ;  then  with  a  vague 
delirious  wish  to  escape  from — something — he  knew  not 
what,  himself  perhaps — or  the  first  sharp  agony  of  bereave- 
ment— so  new,  so  strange,  so  insufferable  to  the  young 
child— he  threw  both  hands  to  his  temples,  and  started  into 
a  run.  Down  the  stairs  he  ran,  and  through  the  passage- 
way,— out  of  the  front  door,  down  the  stone  steps  and 
across  the  lawn — down  the  hill  with  frantic  haste,  and  across 
the  plains, — on  and  on  he  ran,  until  exhausted,  he  fell  for- 
ward upon  his  face,  where  the  waves  of  the  Chesapeake  Bay 
washed  the  beach. 

In  the  grief  and  dismay  of  the  household  it  was  long 
before  he  was  missed  ;  and  then,  when  inquiry  was  set  on 
foot,  some  negro  children,  who  had  seen  his  insane  flight, 
directed  the  search  toward  the  bay,  and  there  they  sought 
and  found  him,  insensible.  They  bore  him  back  to  the 
house,  and  when  he  came  to  himself  in  Bruin's  arms,  he 
looked  up  in  his  face,  and  said, 

"  I  forgive  Paul  now  for  dying — only  God  can  give 
courage  to  live,  after  she  we  love  best  hast  died.'' 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST.   127 

In  reply  to  this,  Bruin  took  him  to  Ginnie,  who  was 
Fcreaming  frigntfully  with  grief  and  anger — not,  of  Bourse, 
because  of  the  loss  of  her  mother,  whose  loss  she  did  not 
know,  and  could  not  understand — but  because  Adam  Hawk, 
who  was  an  ogre  to  all  children,  had  entered  the  room 
belore  her  very  eyes,  and,  despite  her  cries,  had  lifted  np 
in  his  arms  and  borne  off  the  tranquil  little  Madgie,  her 
playmate — her  shadow — her  other  self.  Well  might  the 
impetuous  little  Ginnie  scream  for  her  sister:  for  years 
would  pass,  and  the  indelible  impress  of  character  would  be 
stamped  by  education  upon  each  before  they  met  again. 

The  funeral  of  Mary  Washington  took  place  upon  the 
fourth  day  of  her  death.  It  was  attended  by  numerous 
relatives  and  friends,  crowds  of  the  gentry  of  three  or  four 
counties,  and  many  others  whom  affection,  respect,  grati- 
tude, or  a  morbid  curiosity  had  brought  to  the  house  where 
BO  deep  a  tragedy  had  been  enacted.  Profound  indeed  had 
been  the  consternation  of  the  whole  community  when  the 
news  of  Mary  Washington's  assassination  had  spread  from 
nouse  to  house.  Bruin,  the  dwarf,  had  made  a  deposition 
before  a  neighboring  magistrate,  imploring  at  the  same  time 
that  the  investigation  might  proceed  without  disturbing 
Judge  Washington,  who,  besides  being  in  the  deepest  sor- 
row, really  knew  nothing  about  the  catastrophe,  having  been 
absent  from  the  spot  at  the  time  of  its  occurrence.  The 
magistrate  then  summoned  those  among  the  children  who 
had  seen  the  fatal  event,  and  whose  age  rendered  them 
competent  witnesses.  Broke  Shields  was  among  the  most 
important  of  these.  He  deposed  to  what  he  had  seen  at 
the  May-day  festival,  in  the  forest-glade,  on  the  Old  Turn- 
pike Road,  and,  what  was  much  more  to  the  purpose,  he 
testified  that  he  had  a  second  time  seen,  from  the  cover  of 
the  woods,  the  man  who  had  fired  the  deadly  ball:  He 


128  THE      TWO      SISTERS. 

swore  to  the  pantaloons  being  the  same.  He  knew  them — 
they  were  very  peculiar  garments — looking  very  dark,  and 
strong,  and  coarse,  and  very  much  torn,  as  if  by  violence, 
and  nowhere  mended.  The  man  he  described  as  being 
slight  and  wiry  in  figure,  dark  and  emaciated  in  face,  with 
shaggy  black  brows,  and  stringy  black  hair ;  his  general 
appearance,  wild  and  savage ;  he  had  seen  him  but  a  second, 
as  he  had  tired  and  leaped  into  the  forest. 

This  was  the  best  testimony  that  could  be  gathered,  and 
beyond  this  all  was  dark.  Who  the  man  was,  none  could 
guess  ;  and  what  his  cause  of  enmity  to  one  so  young,  so 
fair,  and  good  as  Mary,  none  could  imagine. 

Then  the  memory  of  Captain  Carey's  mysterious  murder, 
little  more  than  a  year  previous,  and  the  almost  unprece- 
dented train  of  death  and  disaster  that  had  followed,  struck 
with  terror  the  hearts  of  even  the  most  courageous,  and 
caused  even  the  least  superstitious  and  imaginative  to  feel 
that  some  malign  star  reigned  over  the  destinies  of  the 
doomed  family,  and  that  some  hidden,  potent,  and  im- 
placable enemy  had  vowed  their  extermination. 

The  State  authorities  took  the  affair  up  zealously.  The 
governor  offered  a  large  reward  for  the  discovery  and  appre- 
hension of  the  murderer.  The  papers  were  filled  with 
accounts  of  the  tragedy,  and  every  circumstance  bearing 
upon  it,  however  remotely.  Many  private  individuals 
added  largely  to  the  reward  offered  by  the  chief  magistrate 
of  the  State  for  the  arrest  of  the  heinous  assassin. 

Buried  in  the  deepest  grief  for  the  untimely  loss  of  the 
gentle  daughter,  who  had  been  to  him  as  his  last,  his  only 
child,  the  youthful  widow  of  his  only  son — the  comfort, 
stay,  and  hope  of  his  declining  years — the  bereaved  father 
had  no  thoughts  to  give  to  vengeance,  or  even  to  justice  ; 
and  it  was  not  until  the  morning  after  the  funeral,  when 
some  of  his  oldest  and  most  intimate  freuds  called  upon 


THE     SKELETON      AT     THE     FEAST.     129 

him  with  fervent  expressions  of  sympathy,  and  earnest 
offers  of  service,  that  the  JUDGE  awoke  to  the  calls  of  Jus- 
tice— and  then  terrible  indeed  might  have  been  the  awaKCii- 
ing,  but  for  the  habitual  restraints  of  religion,  whose  life- 
long control  over  his  actions  could  not  now  be  shaken  off 
by  one  tempest  of  calamity  or  passion,  however  great  and 
violent.  So,  after  the  first  dark  gathering  of  his  brows, 
and  the  first  impulsive,  fierce  flashing  of  the  eyes,  his  coun- 
tenance settled,  and  he  said  : 

"  vriends,  friends  !  it  is  not  for  ME  to  take  an  active  part 
in  the  pursuit  and  in  the  apprehension  of  this  guilty  man. 
I  am  too  deeply,  sorely  stricken.  My  wounds  still  bleed 
and  smart,  and  any  measure  I  should  take  for  the  arrest  of 
the  criminal  would  savor  more  of  passionate  vengeance  than 
intelligent  justice.  You  who  have  cooler  heads  and  quieter 
hearts  take  this  matter  from  my  hands." 

And  now,  unable  to  recover  his  composure  amid  scenes 
in  which  such  terrible  calamities  had  occurred,  Judge 
Washington  prepared  to  remove  his  family  to  a  new  estate 
he  had  recently  purchased,  and  which  comprised  the  whole 
of  a  small  and  beautiful  islet  that  lay  immediately  opposite 
Prospect  Plains,  but  ten  leagues  off  on  Chesapeake  Bay. 

The  plantation  of  Prospect  Plains,  with  two-thirds  of  the 
field-hands  upon  it,  the  Judge  determined  to  leave  under  the 
charge  of  Adam  Hawk.  The  remaining  third  of  his  labor- 
ers, together  with  the  whole  of  his  household  servants,  he 
resolved  to  carry  with  his  family  to  the  isle. 

It  was  on  the  night  before  his  departure,  that  on  return- 
ing from  his  last  visit  to  the  grave  of  Mary,  he  found  Adam 
JIawk  standing  before  him. 

"  Judge  Washington,  return  with  me  again  to  the  grave 
of  your  daughter,"  he  said,  respectfully,  but  in  stern,  deep 
tones;  and  the  Judge  mechanically  complied. 


130  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

The  moon  was  shining  down  clear  and  bright  upon  the 
uew  and  glistening  tombstones — so  many  of  them — in  the 
family  burial-ground,  when  they  paused  beside  the  newest 
grave,  tint  of  Mary,  which  lay  between  them,  and  across 
which  they  spoke. 

"Judge  Washington,  my  patron  and  ray  best  friend," 
said  Adam  Hawk,  "  until  this  moment  I  have  not  opened 
my  lips  upon  that  dark  subject  which  has  filled  all  minds, 
and  been  upon  all  tongues  for  many  weeks.  But,  now  that 
you  go  hence  for  many  years,  hear  me.  That  of  which  I  have 
said  nothing,  I  have/e^  much,  and  thought  more.  I  have 
not  been  unmindful  of  the  great  goodness  of  you  and  yours 
to  me  and  mine,  now  hear  me.  I  permitted  the  destroyer  of 
my  child  to  die  in  his  bed,  because  his  life  was  not  forfeit  to 
the  laws  for  his  crime,  else  he  had  not  lived  to  this  time ; 
but,  by  the  eternal  justice  of  God  1  if  the  murderer  of  your 
child  lives  on  sea  or  laud,  alive  or  dead,  shall  sea  or  land  de- 
liver him  up.  And,  like  the  Nazarites  of  old,  in  memory  thereof, 
nor  razor  nor  scissors  shall  touch  my  grizzled  hair  until 
that  unknown  demon  stands  upon  the  scaffold — so  help  me 
God !» 

Never  before  had  the  latent  Indian  blood  of  Adam  Hawk 
risen  up  so  luridly  as  now,  when,  with  his  sharply-cut  aqui- 
line profile  strongly  relieved  against  the  moonlight,  he  stood 
stern,  dark,  and  fierce,  and  took  his  oath  of  unsleeping  ven- 
geance. 

Judge  Washington  stood  for  a  while  in  silence,  and  then 
passing  his  arm  within  that  of  Adam,  and  resting  upon  the 
physically  stronger  man,  he  said : 

"Let  us  go  hence,  Adam.  The  outraged  community  will 
cast  forth  the  murderer  from  its  bosom — nay,  violated  nature 
herself,  in  her  wildest  solitudes,  will  give  no  shelter  to  the 
criminal.  Justice  will  have  its  course,  but  let  it  be  jus- 
Mce  I" 


THE  SKELETON  AT  THE  FEAST.   131 

"Yes,  JUSTICE  !"  exclaimed  Adam  Hawk,  raising,  with 
flashing  eye,  one  arm  to  Heaven — "Yes,  justice  ! — not — not 
mercy — not  any  degree  of  mercy  I  JUSTICE  !"  continued 
.A darn  Hawk,  shaking  aloft  his  lifted  arm. 

"  Not  vengeance,  my  friend.  Come  now,  let  us  talk  of 
something  else  —  your  little  granddaughter,  Magdalene. 
We  are  botl  in  the  same  case  now,  Adam,  old  companion 
— each  with  an  orphan  granddaughter  on  his  hands.  Each 
infant  is  as  much  as  one  of  us  can  attend  to  in  its  infancy ; 
but,  Adam,  after  that  I  will  care  for  the  education  and  after 
prospects  of  my  Mary's  adopted  girl." 

Adam  Hawk  gravely  bowed  his  thanks,  though  it  is  prob- 
able, in  his  preoccupation,  he  had  not  heard  exactly  what 
was  said. 

Very  early  the  next  morning,  Judge  Washington  and 
his  household  embarked  in  the  packet-boat  that  lay  at  the 
landing  of  Prospect  Plains,  and  set  sail  for  the  Sunny  Isle. 


CHAPTER    V. 

MAGDALENE. 

"  Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 

Would  like  an  angel's  soothe  a  dying  hour, 
With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing 
As  e'er  passed  maiden's  lip  in  rnooulit  bower ; 

That  underneath  that  face  like  summer  ocean's, 

Its  lip  as  moveless  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 
Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 

Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all  save  fear." — Halledt 

TEN  years  have  passed  since  the  tragedy  resulting  in  the 
severance  of  our  young  foster  sisters  was  enacted ;  ten 
years,  and  the  perpetrator  of  the  crime  remains  undis- 
covered ;  ten  years,  and  the  glittering  new  white  tombstones 
of  the  family  burial-ground  have  grown  gray  with  age  and 
green  with  mould  ;  ten  years,  and  the  proprietor  of  Pros- 
pect Plains  has  never  revisited  his  plantation. 

Ten  years — and  Joseph  Washington  has  passed  all  this 
time  in  his  official  duties,  or  at  his  home  of  more  than  ideal 
beauty — his  island  home 


"  On  the  Cbesapeake's 


wnere  nis  granddaughter,  Virginia,  was  growing  up  a  little 
queen  of  an  isolated  little  kingdom. 

Ten  years — and  Adam  Hawk  still  resided  at  Blackthorn 
Grange,  and  still  managed  the  estate,  or  passed  his  leisure 
hours  in  the  education  of  his  granddaughter,  Magdalene. 

At  the  time  I  write  of  the  Roman  Catholic  and  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  churches  nearly  equally  divided  the 
(132) 


MAGDALKXK.  133 

religious  faith  of  the  States  of  Maryland  and  Virginia;  the 
Roman  Catholic  having  the  ascendancy  in  the  former,  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  in  the  latter.  Other  denominations 
were  almost  unknown  in  these  two  States. 

The  old  Episcopal  Parish  of  All  Souls,  one  of  the  very 
oldest  in  Virginia,  covered  the  best  part  of  three  counties, 
nnd  had  been  for  many  years  under  the  pastoral  charge  of 
the  Reverend  Theodore  Horvey,  a  near  relative  of  him  of 
the  "  Meditations,"  who  had  been  sent  out  from  England  as 
a  missionary  to  the  parish,  and  afterward  retained  by  it  as 
the  stationed  and  resident  minister. 

The  Old  Forest  Church,  as  All  Souls  Church  was  some- 
times called,  and  the  old  parsonage,  had  been  repaired  for 
him  ;  and  as  the  declining  parish  revived  and  prospered 
under  his  ministry,  a  liberal  salary  was  subscribed  for  him. 
He  had  married  Helen  Broke,  the  daughter  of  the  wealthy 
Major  Broke,  of  Forest  Hall,  and  this  connection  greatly 
augmented  his  influence  and  prosperity.  One  son  and  one 
daughter,  Theodore  and  Helen,  had  blessed  this  union. 

Among  the  most  important  and  influential  of  his  parish- 
ioners were,  besides  the  Brokes,  of  Forest  Hall,  the  Wash- 
ingtons,  of  Prospect  Plains,  the  Mountjoys,  of  Alta  Bayou, 
and  Gen.  Wolfe,  of  Mount  Storm. 

Joseph  Washington  and  Adam  Hawk  were  both  profes- 
sors of  the  Episcopal  faith  ;  both  members  of  All  Souls 
Parish  ;  both  had  received  the  rites  of  Christian  baptism  at 
the  font,  and  of  Christian  confirmation  at  the  altar  of  the 
Old  Forest  Church  ;  both  had  knelt  at  the  same  communion- 
table, and  as  boys,  youths,  and  men,  both  had  sat  under  the 
same  preaching  for  nearlv  fifty  years — the  last  twenty  years 
being  under  that  of  the  Reverend  Theodore  Ilervey — thus 
both  held  the  same  articles  of  Christian  faith— both  pos- 
sessed the  reputation  of  eminent  piety,  and  both  wore 
equally  nincc.re.  But  here  all  parallel  between  the  religion 


13i  THE     TWO     S  I  S  T  Ji  R  S . 

of  the  two  men  ended.  Each  enjoyed  religion  in  his  own 
way,  and  a  far  different  way,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
dissimilar  than  the  effect — through  the  modifying  influences 
of  natural  constitution,  temperament,  and  home  education — 
produced  upon  the  character  of  each. 

Joseph  Washington  was  a  man  of  warm  temperament,  of 
genial,  social  affections,  of  large  benevolence,  and  great  phi- 
lanthropy— in  a  word,  naturally  GOOD  GROUND  for  the  seed 
of  Gospel  truth  to  fall  on,  and  he  had  received  the  Word  in 
joy — he  had  inhaled  the  very  spirit  of  Christ — the  Faith 
that  soothed  all  his  sorrows,  plucking  the  sting  from  death 
itself — the  Hope  that  added  to  all  his  joys  the  crown  of  im- 
mortality— the  Love  of  God  and  his  Neighbor  that  inspired 
all  his  thoughts,  words,  and  actions — "THE  PERFECT  LOVE 
that  casteth  out  fear,"  which  led  him  to  look  through  all 
apparent  contradictions  and  impossibilities  to  the  final  judg- 
ment as  the  day  of  great  Redemption.  Thus  it  was  Joseph 
Washington's  highest,  purest  joy  to  contemplate  with  rever- 
ential love  and  worship  the  benignities  of  the  Divine  char- 
acter and  law. 

Adam  Hawk  had  gotten  the  thirty-nine  articles  of  the 
church  well  beaten  into  that  hard  head  of  his ;  and,  perhaps 
from  the  alloy  of  that  stern  North  American  Indian  blood, 
or  his  constitution  and  temperament  generally,  or  his  early 
home  training,  or  all  of  these  together — but — all  he  saw  and 
felt  in  his  religion  was — original  sin,  total  depravity,  the 
wrath  of  God,  and — barring  a  soul  like  his  own  plucked 
here  and  there  as  a  brand  from  the  burning — eternal  per- 
dition ;  and  these  terrible  subjects  possessed  a  strong  attrac- 
tion for  his  own  dark,  fierce,  and  sanguinary  soul.  He 
joyed  to  think  of  the  final  judgment,  of  the  consuming  wrath 
of  an  Almighty  God,  of  the  tremendous  fall  of  the  wicked, 
of  the  lake  that  burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone — and  when 
he  thought  that  he  himself  should  be  there  to  see  the  grand 


MAGDALENE.  135 

final  catastrophe  of  the  tragedy  of  life — with  his  own  eyes 
and  not  another's — he  experienced  an  atrocious  rapture 
such  as  might  fire  the  fierce  soul  of  a  North  American  sav- 
age at  the  prospect  of  the  scalping,  torturing,  and  burning 
of  an  infinite  number  of  foes. 

These,  reader,  were  the  two  men  that  were  respectively 
the  earliest  educators  of  our  two  foster  sisters,  Virginia  and 
Magdalene,  and  who,  for  the  first  ten  years  of  their  live?, 
had  had  almost  the  exclusive  charge  of  forming  or  develop- 
ing their  characters. 

We  need  have  no  misgivings  for  Virginia,  passionate  and 
impetuous  as  we  already  know  her  to  have  been,  we  know 
also  that  she  has  been  in  excellent  hands — we  will  there- 
fore leave  her  for  the  present  in  her  island  home,  and  turn 
to  Magdalene. 

For  some  children,  and  in  some  respects  for  Magdalene, 
Adam  Hawk  would  not  have  made  a  bad  educator,  for  he 
was  a  man  of  strict  truth,  stern  justice,  pure  integrity — and 
he  had  no  dearer  wish  than  the  earthly,  the  immortal  weal 
of  his  granddaughter — nay,  perhaps,  his  savage  joy  at  the 
thought  of  the  grand  spectacle  of  the  final  judgment  would 
have  suffered  some  alloy,  had  he  been  sure  that  Magdalene 
would  have  been  consigned  to  eternal  flames.  Yet  truth, 
justice,  integrity,  were  the  only  virtues  he  really  fostered  in 
Magdalene — virtues  which  were  naturally  and  by  inheritance 
hers ; — while  his  severe  code  and  harsh  discipline  developed 
and  cultivated  to  its  utmost,  that  latent,  hard  implacability 
of  temper,  received  through  him  from  her  stern  Indian  fore- 
fathers ;  that  bad  spirit  which  formed  the  eul  half  of  her 
dread  nature;  and  which,  in  after  years,  flooded  her  own 
life,  and  that  of  another,  with  the  darkest  calamity. 

Education,  perhaps,  never  will  be  fully  understood  and 
perfected  unti.  phrenology,  the  youngest  of  the  sciences,  be 
elevated  to  an  equal  rank  with  its  sisters. 


136  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

No  one  with  the  knowledge  of  character  which  phrenology 
gives,  would  have  taken  a  child  like  Magdalene  Hawk,  a 
child  of  wonderful  force  of  character,  a  child  full  of  self- 
esteem,  firmness,  destructiveness — full  of  all  things  that  go 
to  make  up  an  excessively  proud,  strong,  free,  self-reliant 
and  self-sufficient  nature — a  child  so  fearless  and  exultant, 
that  even  in  infancy,  in  the  midst  of  a  storm,  she  had  clapped 
her  hands  and  crowed  back  in  joy  to  the  thunder. 

There  never  was  a  more  beautiful  child  than  Magdalene 
Hawk  was  at  ten  years  of  age.  So  tall  was  she  for  her  age, 
that  she  would  have  been  taken  to  be  two  years  older ;  and 
so  harmoniously  proportioned,  that  every  slightest  motion 
was  the  perfection  of  grace.  Her  finely  turned  head  and 
neck  had  that  naturally  majestic  grace  we  see  in  the  swan — 
her  rounded  limbs  tapered  off  to  the  slenderest  wrists  and 
ancles,  ending  in  the  smallest  and  most  elegant  of  all  hands 
and  feet.  Her  step  had  the  elastic  stateliness  of  the  deer's. 
Her  complexion  was  clear  and  brilliant — her  Indian  blood 
giving  only  the  darker,  richer  tinge  to  the  bright  crimson 
of  her  cheeks  and  lips ;  her  hair  was  long,  black,  and 
straight — her  features  were  slightly  aquiline — her  eyebrows 
jet  black,  arched,  and  tapering  toward  the  points — her 
eyes  were  wonderfully  large,  dark  and  lustrous,  and  fringed 
by  eyelashes  jet  black,  and  so  very  long,' straight,  and  droop- 
ing, that  they  threw  those  large  eyes  always  into  shadow, 
concealing  their  expression  and,  combined  with  very  full, 
red,  and  beautiful  lips,  gave  to  her  countenance  an  air  of 
luxurious  languor — of  the  omnipotent  fascination  of  which 
the  maiden  of  after  years  was  quite  as  innocent  as  the 
child  of  to-day.  Perfectly  beautiful  as  Magdalene  was — 
or  rather  because  she  was  perfectly  beautiful — there  was 
nothing  delicate  or  fragile  about  her. 

Strength,  eloquence,  beauty,  and  repose — these  were  the 
gro  p  of  ideas  suggested  by  Magdalene  Hawk  when  the 
first  delighted  surprise  of  first  seeing  her  passed  off 


MAGDALENE,  137 

She  was  a  solitary  child,  motherless,  sisterless,  eompan- 
ionless,  unless  Adam  Hawk,  her  grandfather,  and  Gulliver 
Goblin,  his  only  servant,  could  be  called  companions.  And 
perhaps,  because  she  was  a  solitary  child,  she  became  a 
charming  one  ;  and  that  her  infant  life  seemed  to  her  like 
the  winter  morning  twilight  of  her  own  native  plains,  when 
the  day  was  dark  with  remaining  light,  and  overcast  with 
clouds,  and  moaning  with  the  monotonous  sound  of  the 
surge  upon  the  shore,  coming  from  night,  dark,  cold, 
gloomy,  obscure,  and  full  of  threatening  sounds  and  sights. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  now  ?"  would  Adam  Hawk 
ask,  as  the  child  would  let  the  lump  of  seedy  cotton-wool 
she  was  picking  drop  upon  her  lap,  while  she  fell  into  a 
reverie  by  the  great  fire  of  the  keeping-room,  upon  the 
windy  winter  nights  —  "What  are  you  studying  about 
r?ow?"  he  would  ask. 

"  I  am  wondering  where  I  first  came  from,  and  trying  to 
remember,"  would  be  the  truthful  reply  of  the  strange  child. 

"  God  created  your  body  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth." 

"  Yes,  I  know  he  did,  as  he  does  the  flowers  and  trees, 
but  I  am  different  from  them  and  from  it — where  did  / 
come  from  ?" 

"  God  breathed  into  your  nostrils  the  breath  of  life." 

"  I  know — I  know  where  my  breath  comes  from  ;  I  draw 
it  in  and  send  it  out  every  moment  since  the  Lord  first  gave 
me  the  power  to  do  it ;  but — where  did  /  myself  come 
from,  first  of  all  ? — not  my  body  and  my  breath,  but  /,  MY- 
SELF, that  studies,  and  wonders,  and  never  sleeps  ?" 

Then  would  follow  a  section  of  catechism,  and  an  expla- 
nation of  the  subject  that  ought  to  have  been  perfectly 
satisfactory,  only  it  was  not,  for  Magdalene  would  imme- 
diately reply — 

"  Yes,  I  know — you  told  me  that  before  ;  but  what.  I  wag 
trying  to  remember  was,  where  I  came  from  first  of  all ;  and 


138  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

I  was  just  going  to  recollect,  when  you  spoke  to  me  and 
put  me  out.  I  do  wish  I  could  remember  it,  but  I  feel  as 
if  it  were  a  very  sad  place." 

Adam  Hawk  would  repeat  for  the  thousandth  time  that 
a  child  would  ask  more  questions  than  a  philosopher  could 
answer  in  a  thousand  centuries ;  and,  exhorting  her  to 
mind  and  complete  her  task  of  cotton-picking  before  bed- 
time, return  to  his  book  or  his  thoughts. 

The  only  other  occupant  of  their  fireside  would  sit  on 
his  haunches,  propping  his  chin  on  his  hands,  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  and  study  Magdalene  for  hours  together, 
watching  the  calm  and  beautiful  face,  the  mature  and 
thoughtful  expression  ;  and  shaking  his  head  slowly,  slowly, 
would  mumble — 

"She  ain't  right — she  ain't.  She  ain't  human  —  she 
ain't.  Look  at  her  now  !  She  is  either  one  of  the  angels 
of  the  Lord,  or  else  she  is  the  ole  Satan  hisself  in  female 
form." 

This  was  Gulliver  Goblin,  the  superannuated  gardener  of 
Prospect  Plains,  now  the  man-of-all-work  to  the  overseer — 
"  Gulliver  Goblin,"  so  called  from  his  mendacious  propen- 
sities and  his  marvelous  tales,  all  of  a  raw-head-and-bloody- 
bones  character.  Gulliver  Goblin,  or  Mr.  Big-gs  Chisselly, 
as  he  called  himself,  united  in  his  own  person  many  more 
offices  besides  those  of  plantation  gardener,  overseer's  man, 
historian  and  story-teller:  he  was  a  sort  of  self-constituted 
magistrate  on  the  estate,  and  self-ordained  preacher  at  the 
meetings,  and  the  fiddler-in-general  to  the  neighborhood. 
In  his  magisterial  dignity  he  would  often  decide  how  much 
of  perquisites  or  plunder  should  be  given  with  a  girl  in 
marriage  ;  in  his  clerical  character  he  would  pronounce  the 
marriage  benediction  ;  and  in  his  musical  capacity  he  would 
then  play  the  fiddle  for  the  company  to  dance  ;  and  not  un- 
frequently  entertain  the  company  with  some  hornole  story. 


MAGDALENE.  139 

or  improvise  a  humorous  sketch  of  something  that  had  oc 
curred  in  their  circle.  This  was  his  forte ;  he  was  great 
on  the  fiddle,  greater  on  the  banjo,  but  greatest  in  grotesque 
satirical  improvisations.  Gulliver  Goblin  was  indeed  and 
in  truth  one  of  those  "  mute  inglorious"  Paganinies  of 
whom  a  few  may  be  always  found  among  the  negroes  of 
the  Southern  plantations,  whose  general  musical  genius  is 
too  well  known  to  be  denied.  A  great  terror  was  Uncle 
Biggs  and  his  banjo  to  evil-doers  among  the  negroes  of 
the  whole  neighborhood  ;  more  than  every  other  penalty 
for  misdemeanor  they  dreaded  being  "  put  upon  the  banjo" 
by  Uncle  Biggs.  Gulliver  Goblin  was  a  solitary  old  man  : 
all  his  family,  as  he  often  said  at  meeting,  "had  succeeded 
him  to  the  land  from  whose  burning  no  traveler  returneth" 
. — that  is  to  say,  his  parents,  brethren  and  sisters  had  passed 
away  in  the  course  of  nature.  Uncle  Biggs  had  never 
married  ;  he  had  been  jilted  once  by  Mrs.  Polly  Pepper, 
and  that  peppering,  he  said,  had  seasoned  his  heart  so. 
highly  that  it  was  proof  against  all  the  'fluencys  of  beauty 
and  time.  Gulliver  Goblin  would  have  taken  strongly  to 
our  lonely  child,  only  there  was  a  natural  reserve  and  state 
about  the  little  one  that  made  him  somewhat  shy  of  her. 
He  would  circle  around  her  as  a  great  black  bug  about  a 
bright  candle ;  he  would  admire  her,  study  her,  wonder  at 
her,  and  be  half  afraid  of  her,  beautiful  woman-child  that 
she  was.  Sometimes  —  very  seldom  —  Magdalene  would 
notice  him  by  asking  some  strange  question  upon  subjects 
that  only  he  might  be  able  or  willing  to  inform  her  of;  and 
sometimes,  with  her  calm,  profound,  and  beautiful  counte- 
nance turned  full  upon  him,  she  would  suddenly  frighten 
him  out  of  his  senses  by  asking  him  some  startling  question 
about  his  pve-existence. 

As  the  winter  morning  twilight  of  her  lonely  and  loveless 
infancy  passed  off,  however,  the  musinc:  /rirl  left  off  asking 


140 


THE     TWO     SISTERS. 


vain  questions,  and  her  reveries  were  filled  with  the  present, 
or  her  thoughts  projected  themselves  into  the  future. 

She  became  very  observant  of  all  things  around  her. 
The  face  of  nature  with  its  infinite  variety — forests,  fields, 
and  flowers — water*,  clouds,  and  clear  ether — day  and  night, 
light  and  darkness,  sun  and  stars,  were  deep  unfathomable 
mysteries  to  her — mysteries  she  never,  never  grew  weary  of 
diving  into. 

LIFE  was  the  greatest  mystery  of  all.  What  was  it  ? 
whither  tended  it  ?  She  accepted  with  awe  all  the  Church 
had  to  teach  her,  but  reached  for  something  beyond.  Great 
reverence  she  had  for  LIFE — great  sympathy  for  all  life  that 
could  SUFFER  or  ENJOY,  however  humble  its  form  might  be. 
In  her  lonely  rambles  on  the  sandy  shores  of  the  bay,  she 
would  stoop  and  pick  up  the  little  fish  that  might  be 
stranded  on  the  beach,  and  if  its  life  was  not  extinct,  return 
it  to  the  water.  In  her  solitary  wanderings  over  the  plains, 
or  through  the  forest,  she  would  remove  the  small  catter- 
pillar  that  might  be  crawling  across  the  foot-path,  lest  some 
hasty  foot  should  tread  it  to  death.  Even  the  drowning 
fly  was  not  beneath  her  care.  Nor  was  this  altogether 
from  benevolence — strange  as  it  may  be — it  arose  more 
from  conscientiousness ;  and  could  the  musing  child  have 
understood  her  feelings,  and  put  them  into  words,  she 
might  have  said  :  "  All  living  things — all  that  can  suffer 
and  enjoy — and  that  are  lower  and  weaker  than  ourselves — 
have  a  rigH  to  our  care  and  protection — have  a  right  to 
all  the  happiness  that  we  have  the  power  to  give  them. 
And  as  higher  orders  of  beings,  angels  and  ai'changols, 
minister  to  us,  cherishing,  protecting,  defending  us,  so  we 
should  cherish,  protect,  and  care  for  the  well-being  of  all 
that  the  universal  Father  has  entrusted  to  our  mercy — 
as  far  as  we  have  power  and  they  have  neea.  Shall  I, 
whose  slumbers  an  angel  guards,  not  save  a  wounded  bird 


THE     FIRST     PRESENTIMENT.  141 

from  death?"  Sometimes  the  chain  of  life  was  very  dis- 
tinct to  her ;  and  in  those  lonely  moods  of  hers,  by  a  sudden 
electric  shock,  she  felt  her  connection  with  all  the  life  above, 
and  all  the  life  below  her. 

Very  unequally  educated  was  Magdalene.  In  all  that 
the  society  of  other  children  might  have  taught  her,  she 
was  profoundly  ignorant.  In  all  that  the  face  of  nature, 
solitude,  self-communion  could  suggest,  inspire,  and  teach, 
she  was  prematurely  wise. 

Very  few  people  had  the  solitary  child  seen  in  all  her 
life ;  and  these  could  be  summed  up  in  a  very  few  words : — 
the  assessor  once  a  year  would  draw  bridle  at  Blackthorn's 
gate — the  clergyman  in  his  pastoral  rounds  would  visit 
them  about  twice  as  often — and  these,  I  think,  were  all,  if 
we  except  an  occasional  traveler,  who  would  be  landed 
from  a  packet  at  the  beach,  and  journeying  on  foot  across 
the  plains,  with  his  bundle  swung  on  a  stick  over  his  shoul- 
ders, would  meet  Magdalene,  and  start  with  surprise  and 
admiration  at  the  sudden  vision  of  dazzling  loveliness  in 
that  wild  place,  and  passing,  turn  again  and  again  to  gaze 
and  wonder  at  the  marvelous  beauty  of  the  lonely  child. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE     FIRST     PRESENTIMENT. 

"  What  shall  be  be  e'er  night  ?     Perchance  a  thing 
O'er  which  the  raven  flaps  her  funeral  wing." — Byron. 

"  COME  !  It's  not  twelve  o'clock  yet,  quite,  but  you  may 
nil  break  off  there,  and  go  to  see  the  man  hanged,"  sang 
out  the  sonorous  voice  of  Adam  Hawk  over  a  field  where 


A 12  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

some  fortr  or  fifty  negroes  were  at  work ;  and  in  a  moment 
every  implement  of  husbandry  was  thrown  down,  and  a 
general  shout  of  joy  was  raised  by  the  temporarily  released 
laborers. 

"  Stop  that  confounded  howling  and  shrieking !  It  is 
the  confusion  of  Babel ;  Bedlam  itself  let  loose  would  be 
more  reasonable.  Hark  !  do  you  hear  me,  lunatics  ?  STOP, 
I  say,  or  I  shall  stop  the  holiday  !  Are  we  in  Pandemo- 
nium ?"  clanged  out  the  same  harsh  iron  tones,  as  the 
negroes,  with  a  great  noise,  gathered  up  again  their  farming 
implements,  preparatory  to  scattering  themselves. 

When  all  had  left  the  field,  except  Gulliver  Goblin,  the 
overseer  turned  to  him  and  said, 

"You,  also,  are  at  liberty  to  go  and  see  the  spectacle, 
Gulliver.  Go,  it  may  do  you  good.  I  should  not  have 
permitted  those  idiots  to  leave  their  work,  had  it  not  been 
that  I  hoped  the  ceremony  would  have  a  good  effect  upon 
them — that  they  would  see  that  the  way  of  the  transgressor 
is  hard.  Why  do  you  stand  waiting  ?  Go,  it  will  interest 
you — especially  as  the  culprit  is  a  negro." 

"  Thanky,  sur !  I  wouldn't  go  to  see  a  white  man  hung, 
to-day — let  alone  a  colored  gentleman — nigger-roe,  as  you 
call  him." 

"  Why,  sir  ?" 

"  Gaze,  in-^rs^-us  ;  I'm  not  morally  swayed  in  my  mind, 
of  the  sobriety  of  exocutionizing  a  gentleman  by  the  neck, 
for  borrowing  another  man's  sheep  !" 

"  Why,  if  one  may  crave  your  worship's  reason  ?"  sneered 
Adam  Hawk. 

"  If  your  honor's  worship  had  about  eleventeen  hours 
ledger,  I  could  confuse  your  min'  by  a  'liverin'of  my  'ration 
on  caputating  bunishment  and  de  melodious  opprobrium  of 
another  man's  property." 

"  Your  WHAT  ?" 


THE     FIRST     PRESENTIMENT.  143 

"  My  'ration,  sir,  on  moral  'suading  and  carnal  weepons ; 
my  lectur,  sir,  on  capita-ting  bunishment,  sir,  improvided  to 
be  'livered  'fore  a  journeyed  meetin'  o'  de  colored  poplin  of 
this  legion  of  contry  for  the  debolishment  of  gallowses,  an' 
the  'vention  of  banishment  in  gineral.  White  poplin,  sir, 
'vited  to  'tend — we  sees  no  difference  in  color,  sir.  The 
meetin'  to  be  helden'  this  arternoon,  at  the  glade  of  the  Old 
Turnpike  Road  1" 

"  The  site  of  two  assassinations  !  a  very  proper  place  to 
preach  the  abolishment  of  the  scaffold  from,"  growled 
Adam  Hawk,  with  a  sardonic  grin,  as  he  turned  from  the  spot. 

"  Hyena !  I'll  put  you  on  the  banjo  this  very  night,  long 
o'  the  jack-ketch  and  the  governor  !"  growled  Gulliver ;  and 
as  this  was  the  most  sanguinary  form  his  vengeance  ever 
took,  I  suppose  it  was  perfectly  satisfactory. 

"Father,"  said  Magdalene,  "where  are  all  the  people 
going?" 

"They  are  going  to  St.  Leonard's,  to  see  the  man 
hanged  !" 

"  May  I  go,  too  ?"  asked  Magdalene,  without  the  slight- 
est idea  of  what  she  asked  for. 

"  No,"  was  the  curt  reply  of  Adam  Hawk. 

"But  I  want  to  go  very  much." 

"  I  have  once  said  NO  !   I  mean  it." 

"  But  I  never  saw  a  man  hanged  1" 

"  That  is  no  matter  for  you  !" 

"What  is  it  like?" 

"  It  is  none  of  yonr  business." 

"  But  why  must  I  not  go  to  see  the  man  hanged,  whet 
everybody  else  on  the  plantation  has  gone  ?" 

"BECAUSE  I  WILL  IT." 

"But  /WILL  to  go!"  persisted  the  persevering  child. 

Adam  Hawk  looked  at  her  a  moment  half  in  affection 
half  in  severity,  and  said  sternly, 


144:  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  See  here,  Magdalene  !  When  I  have  once  said  NO — 
you  are  to  accept  that — and  once  for  all,  let  me  tell  you,  that 
I  will  have  you  give  up  that  bad  habit  of  persistence ;  do 
you  hear  and  heed  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  father." 

"Magdalene,"  said  he,  calling  to  her,  as  she  was  turning 
thoughtfully  away.  "  Magdalene,  when  Satan  once  puts 
any  thing  into  your  head,  an  angel  of  the  Lord  couldn't  get 
it  out ;  now  I  see  that  hard  head  of  yours  is  set  on  going  to 
see  the  performance.  Now  I  repeat  to  you  emphatically — 
you  are  not  to  go  !" 

"  I  will  not  go,  sir  ;"  replied  Magdalene,  gravely. 

"  If  you  do,  I  will  punish  you  with  severity,"  concluded 
the  well-meaning  but  mistaken  man.  And  at  the  degrading 
threat,  the  bright  countenance  of  the  beautiful  child  changed 
— grew  overcast  and  darkened  ;  and  she  turned  silently  and 
moodily  away. 

It  was  a  brilliant  day — and  as  she  walked  on  over  the 
plains,  crushing  the  slightly-frosted  ground  under  her  feet, 
she  encountered  Gulliver  Goblin.  She  looked  up  at  him — 
and  the  inexplicable  expression  of  her  countenance  drew 
from  him — though  it  was  a  rare  thing  for  him  to  address 
her — the  inquiry, 

"  What  is  the  matter,  little  mistress  ?" 

"I  am  hurt,"  replied  the  child  ;  and  perhaps  nothing  but 
her  deeply  humiliated  feelings  would  have  drawn  from  her 
that  admission — a  condescension  that  immediately  embold- 
ened Gulliver  to  say, 

"  Hurt,  Miss  Madge  1  I  reckon  how  you'd  be  more 
hurt,  if  you  was  gwine  for  to  be  hanged  at  this  present 
hour." 

•  "That  is  what  I  have  been  wondering  about  this  morn- 
ing.. I  never  saw  such  a  fuss  among  people,  since  the 
Governor  was  elected,  and  had  a  dinner  given  him  at  St. 


THE     FIRST     PRESENTIMENT.  145 

Leonard's — and  it  is  because  a  man  is  going  to  be  publicly 
banged.  Is  it  good  or  bad  to  be  banged  ?" 

"  Marster  save  your  mortal  soul,  Miss  Madgie!" 

"  Well ,  why  don't  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  The  Lord  help  your  heart !  sometimes  you  make  objur- 
gations as  makes  my  hair  bristle  right  for  sheer  scare — and 
sometimes  you  axes  such  simple  questions,  as  a  natural-born 
idiot  ninny-hammer  would  know  better  nor  to  ax !  Is 
hanging  good  or  bad  !  I  'vises  you  to  try  the  impediment, 
an'  fin'  out  for  yourself,"  said  Gulliver,  looking  at  her  with 
n  sort  of  gingerly  compassion. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  Magdalene. 

•'  I'm  a  gwine  to,"  replied  the  Goblin,  taking  the  child  by 
the  band  and  leading  her  up  the  hill  to  the  deserted  man- 
sion. He  stopped  in  front  of  the  lawn-gate  to  recover 
breath,  and  then  pointing  to  the  top-  of  the  Hall,  he  said. 
"  I  am  gwine  for  to  take  you  tip  to  the  top  of  that  there 
high  house  like  Sam  did  Marster  in  the  Bible,  and  show 
you  something." 

Magdalene  had  never  been  within  the  enclosure,  and  she 
now  looked  with  great  interest  at  the  house.  Goblin  drew 
a  key  from  his  pocket,  unlocked  the  gate  and  passed  in, 
approached  the  front  of  the  house,  and  admitting  himself 
by  a  side  door,  took  the  child  up  a  narrow  spiral  staircase 
that  carried  them  up  to  the  terrace  walk  on  the  roof  of  the 
house.  Magdalene  had  never  been  up  here  before,  of 
course,  and  had  never  seen  the  land  and  water  from  so  high 
a  point  of  view.  She  turned  with  almost  breathless  delight 
to  look  at  the  PROSPECT  whose  simple  grandeur  gave  a  name 
to  Hall,  Hill,  and  Plains. 

It  was  a  brilliant  day  in  early  spring.  Before  her  de- 
Kcended  the  great  green  hill  gradually  sweeping  into  the 
vast  green  plains  stretching  ruiles  and  miles  to  the  dark 
blue  waters  of  Chesapeake  Bay,  falling  away  and  away 


146  THE     TWO     S1S1EKS. 

until  they  were  lost  to  sight  in  the  convex  form  of  the 
earth  itself.  Behind  her  arose  the  grand  forest,  rolling  off 
and  off — a  boundless  ocean  of  foliage,  until  it  disappeared 
in  the  far-off  distant  horizon.  These  were  the  grand  and 
simple  features  of  the  landscape.  A  magnificent  PROSPECT 
indeed ! 

While  Magdalene,  almost  forgetful  of  the  subject  upon 
which  her  thoughts  had  concentrated  themselves  the  whole 
morning,  gazed  with  admiration  approaching  to  awe  upon 
this  boundless  outspread  of  land  and  water,  and  murmured 
to  herself— 

"  Now  I  see  for  myself  that  the  great  earth  is  round,  and 
feel  that  it  is  indeed  an  immense  heavenly  body  whirling 
with  inconceivable  velocity  through  space,  even  as  Mr. 
Hervey  says." 

"Now  she's  at  her  witchified  incanterations  again  1 — and 
I  sich  a  cussed  infunuelly  ole  fool  as  fur  to  trus'  myself  on 
top  'o  the  house  'long  o'  her !  In  the  name  o'  the  prophets 
an'  off  the  'postles,  an'  off  the  holy  angels ! — Amen  !  Miss 
Madgie,  I  say  1  leave  off  looking  that  way  an'  talking  to 
yourself — or  to  Sam,  and  tend  to  what  I'm  gwine  for  to  say 
to  you." 

"Well,  Uncle  Gulliver,  I  am  listening." 

"  Honey,  look  down  at  that  there  road,  and  see  how  full 
o'  people  it  is,"  said  the  Goblin,  pointing  to  where  the  road 
stretched  like  a  yellow  thread  to  the  town  of  St.  Leonard's, 
which  lay  like  a  bright  mosaic  gem  on  the  green  plains. 
"You  can't  see  the  gallows,  but  I'll  tell  you  about  it,"  saia 
the  Goblin  ;  and  as  he  took  a  ghastly  pleasure  in  such  sub- 
jects,  he  sat  down  upon  the  narrow  bench  that  ran  within 
the  parapet,  and  inviting  Magdalene  to  do  likewise,  he  com- 
posed himself,  cleared  his  throat,  and  commencing,  gave  tho 
child  the  whole  loathsome  story  of  an  execution  he  had 
once  witnessed — with  all  its  soul-sickening  details — one 


THE     FIRST     PRESENTIMENT.  147 

circumstance  of  great  horror — of  how  the  rope  broke  and 
the  criminal  fell,  and  was  picked  up  and  dragged,  mangled 
and  bloody,  blinded  and  maddened,  back  to  the  scaffold. 
Magdalene  listened  apparently  unmoved,  her  cheek  retained 
its  rich  crimsoned  tint,  and  her  large,  dark,  thoughtful  eyes 
were  not  once  withdrawn  from  the  grotesque  face  of  the  old 
negro,  which  became  perfectly  demoniac  with  the  antics  of 
feeling  as  he  told  the  story.  After  he  was  done  her  eyes 
remained  fixed  upon  him  with  the  same  thoughtful,  pro- 
foundly thoughtful  expression,  until  he  said,  "  Now,  would 
you  like  to  go  and  see  the  execution  ?  If  you  ruu  fast 
you'll  be  in  time  ;  they  won't  fetch  him  out  for  half  an  hour 
yet.  I  thought  you  might  o'  seen  it  from  the  top  o'  this 
house,  but  you  can't,  a  cause  the  gallows  is  on  the  other 
side  o'  the  town.  Why  don't  you  answer  of  me,  Miss 
Madgie,  and  don't  keep  on  o'  boring  o'  holes  through  my 
head  with  your  eyes — it  kind  o'  puts  a  scare  on  top  o'  me, 
'deed  it  do  !  Come !  I'll  take  you  to  see  the  hanging  ef 
you  want  to  go." 

"  I  would  not  see  it  for  ten  thousand  worlds  like  this  !  I 
would  not  see  it  for  ten  thousand  heavens  like  heaven  !" 

"I  thought  you  'sired  very  much  for  to  witness  the 
solemuification." 

"I  didn't  know  what  it  was!  I  did  not  know  they 
hanged  living  men  like  bacon,  you  see  1  I  thought  the 
word  hang  might  have  two  opposite  meanings  like — like — 
pray,  you  know — there  is  pray — to  heaven  ! — and  prey — 
upon  a  kid  or  a  lamb." 

"Now  !"  said  the  Goblin,  looking  at  the  sun  with  the  air 
of  a  seer,  "now  it  is  twelve  o'clock — now  if  you  want  to 
re-nlfy  the  thing  you  may  'maginate  it  all  out,  and  almost 
see  it  with  your  eyes — jest  this  rainnit  they  are  taking  of 
him  up  the  steps  o' the  scaffold! — stop!  now  I'll  tell  you 
co  a  minnit  when  they  fixes  the  rope." 


148  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Before  he  got  any  further,  Magdalene  had  sprung, 
bounded  from  his  side,  and  fled  precipitately  down  the 
stairs. 

Goblin  gazed  after  her  half  bewildered,  half  relieved  by 
her  sudden  flight;  and  when  he  found  his  voice,  he  said, 

"Ef  she  ain't  gone  to  see  the  executionizing  arter  all,  sell 
rue  to  Georgey  !  The  hardest,  hardest  little  devil  I  ever  saw 
in  all  the  days  o'  my  life  !  She  heern  me  tell  all  'bout  that 
rope  breakin',  and  all  that  bloody  ghastly  story,  and  her 
red  cheeks  never  turned  !  It's  Injun  blood,  or  it'?  Sam  !" 
and  the  old  man  rising  left  the  terrace. 

Meeting  the  overseer  by  chance,  he  threw  that  worthy 
into  great  wrath  by  telling  him  that  Magdalene  had  gone 
to  see  the  execution. 

Yes,  she  had  heard  with  unshaken  nerves  and  unfading 
cheek.  Nerves  of  the  strength  and  elasticity  of  tempered 
steel,  muscles  of  marble  hardness  and  firmness,  gave  little 
outward  evidence  of  the  strong  mental  ngony — mysterious 
ugony  far  greater  than  the  occasion  called  for — that  shook 
almost  her  reason  from  its  centre.  Now  it  seemed  to  her 
that  some  spirit  of  evil  had  moved  upon  the  waters  of  her 
poul,  and  its  vague  vapors  and  mists  had  separated  and 
settled  into  something  substantial  and  clearly  defined  as 
horrible.  Yes,  the  one  monstrous,  the  one  atrocious  evil 
in  the  world,  was — the  legal  SCAFFOLD. 

Pursued  by  this  terrible  idea,  she  fled  up  the  hill  at  the 
back  of  the  mansion,  and  plunged  into  the  depths  of  the 
forest.  It  was  strange,  passing  strange — one  of  the  un- 
fathomable mysteries  of  life,  that  among  all  the  terrors  of 
the  "  night  side"  of  nature,  this  only  should  have  caused 
her  heart,  to  quail  to  its  very  core. 

Often,  often  in  after  years,  the  woman  recalled  this  first 
terrible  presentiment  of  the  child,  and  concentrating  all  hor 
reasoning  powers  upon  the  fact,  sought  vainly  to  account 


T  H  K      F  I  K  S  T      1'  K  li  S  K  -\  1 1  il  E  X  T  .  1-19 

for  it.  Now  the  child  sought  in  the  darkest  shades  of  the 
forest  a  refuge  from  the  horrible  phantom  of  her  miud. 
She  wandered  all  that  bright  spring  day,  but  saw  no  bright- 
ness in  it — all  nature  was  awake  witli  new  life,  but  to  her, 
in  her  then  mood,  the  faintness  of  death  was  in  all  things. 

She  wandered  on  and  on,  until  the  shades  of  evening 
were  stealing  over  the  plains;  then  she  turned  her  slow 
steps  toward  home,  her  mind  still  absorbed  in  the  one 
horrible  idea,  now  so  agonizing  in  its  intensity  that  it 
seemed  to  affect  her  reason.  She  felt  a  sort  of  maniac 
impulse  to  fly  to  the  scene  of  the  loathsome  tragedy — she 
feared  falling  into  the  power  of  some  fiend  that  should 
impel  her  to  a  crime  that  should  place  her — THERE  ! 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  mind,  while  returning  down  the 
wooded  hill  toward  the  plains  through  the  very  Old  Turn- 
pike Road  we  have  mentioned  so  often,  that  she  met  Mr. 
Hervey,  the  preacher,  on  his  return  from  St.  Leonard's, 
whither  he  had  gone  to  give  the  last  consolations  of  religion 
to  the  condemned,  (the  reader  will  remember  that  Mr. 
Hervey 's  home  was  at  the  parsonage  of  the  old  Forest 
Church.) 

"  You  are  out  late  alone,  little  girl,"  said  the  preacher, 
stopping  his  horse,  when  he  saw  the  beautiful  child  standing 
in  the  road  before  him.  "Where  have  you  been,  little  one, 
and  where  are  you  going  now  ?"  he  inquired. 

She  did  not  reply  ;  preoccupied  with  her  strange,  gloomy 
thoughts,  perhaps  she  did  not  understand  or  hear.  Looking 
at  her  now  with  more  attention,  and  seeing  the  strange, 
deep  gloom  u,ocu  the  young  child's  face,  he  said  : 

"  Why,  wtaat  is  amiss  at  your  house,  Magdalene  ?" 

"  I  wish  I  were  dead,  Mr.  Hervey  P' 

"  You  wish  you  were  dead  !  I  am  afraid  you  have  been 
very  naughty,  and  got  into  trouble,  little  girl.  At  least, 
that  is  a  very  naughty  wUh." 


150  THJi     TWO     Sl 

"  You  said,  yourself,  when  General  Wolfe's  grandson 
died,  that  it  was  a  blessing  when  children  were  taken  to 
heaven  in  their  sinless  infancy." 

"  I  said  that,  little  girl,  but  you  are  not  to  wish  it ;  and 
I  am  very  much  afraid  now,  that  you  are  very,  very  far  from 
being  a  sinless  child.  Madge,  you  have  been  naughty,  and 
are  afraid  to  go  home.  Come,  let  me  lift  you  up  before 
me  and  take  you  home,"  said  the  preacher,  stopping  and 
reaching  down  his  arms  for  the  child. 

Magdalene,  for  a  reason  of  her  own,  accepted  his  offer, 
and  he  set  her  up  before  him,  and,  turning  again  his  horse's 
head,  rode  toward  the  Plains.  As  they  went  along  slowly, 
the  preacher  once  more  sought  to  gain  the  child's  confi- 
dence, and  asked  her  what  she  had  been  doing  wrong. 

"  Nothing,  indeed,  that  I  know  of,  sir ;  but  I  am  very 
unhappy." 

"  Unhappy,  Magdalene  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Why  are  you  so?" 

"  How  old  might  a  little  girl  be  before  she  could  kill  any- 
body and  be  hanged  for  it  ?" 

"  MONSTROUS  THOUGHT  1  what  puts  such  horrors  into  your 
head,  my  child  ?» 

"  What  happened  to-day  did,  sir.  Please  tell  me  how 
old  a  little  girl  might  be  before  she  could  take  any  one's 
life  and  die  for  it  ?" 

"  Magdalene,  you  revolt  me  I" 

"  Please  answer  my  question,  sir." 

"  Child,  you  are  crazy  I" 

"Am  I  then,  sir?" 

"  Indeed,  I  almost  think  so." 

"  Can  crazy  people  be  hanged,  sir  ?" 

"  Again  !  what  pertinacity  1 — no  ;  crazy  people  cannot 
•nffer  capital  punishment." 


THE     FIRST     PRESENTIMENT.  151 

"Can  children,  sir  ?" 

"  Magdalene,  such  questions  are  horrible,  and  such 
thoughts  are,  I  think,  even  wicked  for  a  little  girl  like  you. 
No,  then,  children  cannot  suffer  so." 

"Then  I  pray  to  God  that  I  may  die  while  I  am  a 
child  1"  said  the  little  girl,  clasping  her  hands  together,  and- 
raising  her  splendid  eyes  to  heaven,  with  such  a  fervor  of 
supplication,  that  the  minister  looked  at  her,  divided  be- 
tween surprise,  admiration,  and  amusement. 

"  Why,  thou  strangest  of  all  beautiful  witches,  Magda- 
lene !  do  you  suppose  that  if  you  live  to  be  a  woman,  you 
will  ever  be  so  wicked  as  to  take  any  one's  life  ?" 

"No,  sir,  I  don't  think  so  ;  but  yet  Satan  might  get  the 
better  of  me,  or  else  I  might  be  accused  of  Going  such  a 
dreadful  thing,  or  some  one  I  dearly  loved  might.  Oh,  I 
hope,  I  hope  1  may  die  in  peace !" 

"  Magdalene,  I  think  that  your  young,  susceptible  and 
ardent  imagination  has  been  too  deeply  and  painfully  im- 
pressed and  affected  by  what  has  happened  to-day.  Per- 
haps it  will  relieve  you  to  hear  what  I  have  to  tell  you — 
the  condemned  criminal  has  been  pardoned." 

"  Pardoned  I" 

"  Yes,  Magdalene,  pardoned  on  the  scaffold ;  are  you 
not  glad  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  :  was  he  ?" 

"Thou  strange  child,  yes." 

"I  was  thinking  that 'if  God  had  pardoned  him  first — 
that  if  he  was  ready  to  go  to  a  better  world,  he  had  better 
have  gone.  I  was  thinking  that,  after  all  he  had  gone 
through,  he  never  could  be  happy  in  this  world  again.  I 
shall  never  be,  now  that  I  know  such  things  be." 

"Magdalene,  I  must  know  you  better;  you  are  the 
queerest  yet  the  most  interesting  child  I  have  ever  met," 
said  the  minister,  contemplating  her  with  profound  interest. 


152  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Did  you  know  my  mother,  sir  ?"  inquired  the  child, 
seizing  this  opportunity  of  gaining  information  of  her 
whose  name 

"  Was  banished  from  each  tongae  and  ear 
Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear." 

"  Did  you  know  my  mother,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  Magdalene,  but  we  will  not  speak  of  her  now," 
replied  the  preacher  very  gravely. 

"  Only  one  question,  sir  :  in  the  month  before  I  was  born, 
was  there  any  very  horrible  execution  in  this  part  of  the 
country  ?  and  was  my  mother's  mind  very  much  affected  by 
it,  that  you  know  of?" 

The  clergyman  here  stopped  his  horse  short,  and  taking 
the  child  by  the  shoulders,  turned  her  around  until  she 
faced  him.  Then  he  gazed  deeply  into  her  profound  and 
beautiful  eyes  for  the  space  of  a  minute,  before  he  said  : 

"  My  child,  why,  tell  me  why  you  asked  me  that  ques- 
tion ?' 

"  Because  I  heard  one  of  the  nigger  women  say,  once, 
that  the  quarter  chimney  caught  fire  a  month  before  her 
child  was  born,  and  that  the  child  is  now  more  afraid  of 
lire  than  any  thing  else  in  the  world.  Now,  there  is  no- 
thing on  earth — no  fire,  nor  water,  nor  storm — no  wild 
horse,  nor  mad  dog,  nor  wolf — nothing  in  life  frightens 
me,  and  makes  me  ill,  except  an  execution.  Oh  I  oh  !  I 
am  afraid  even  to  talk  of  it !" 

"  Magdalene,"  said  the  minister,  "you  must  be  sent  to 
school;  'Satan  finds  some  mischief  yet  for  idle  brains  to 
do,  as  well  as  'idle  hands;'  and  you  must  mix  more  with 
children,  and  less  with  old  crones." 

And  the  minister,  privately  resolving  to  speak  to  Adam 
Hawk  upon  the  subject,  restored  Magdalene  to  her  former 
position  before  him,  and  put  his  horse  in  motion. 

It  was  nearly  dark;  there  was  no  moon,  and  the  sky  was 


INDIAN     BLOOD.  15? 

overcast  with  clouds,  so  that  the  minister,  when  he  arrived 
nt  the  gate  of  the  grange,  instead  of  going  in,  set  Magda- 
lene down  ;  and  promising  to  call  during  the  week  and  see 
about  that  school  business,  turned  his  horse's  head  and  rode 
rapidly  away. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

INDIAN      BLOOD. 

"  He  gazed  on  her  and  she  on  him  ;  'twas  strange 

How  like  they  looked — the  expression  wag  the  game  ; 

Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  change, 

In  the  large  dark  eye's  mutual  darted  flame  ; 

For  she,  too,  was  as  one  who  could  avenge 
If  cause  should  be  ;  a  lioness,  though  tame. 

Her  father's  blood  before  her  father's  face 

Boiled  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of 'his  nee." — Byron. 

MAGDALENE  entered  the  grange.  In  the  keeping-room, 
or  "big  room,"  or  hall,  as  it  was  by  different  persons  called, 
a  great  fire,  which  the  cold  spring  night  rendered  necessary, 
was  burning  in  the  wide  chimney,  and  lighting  up  the  whole 
large  room  with  blinding  radiance.  Not  a  soul  was  there. 
She  passed  into  the  adjoining  room,  the  inner  room  which 
had  been  her  grandmother's  bed-chamber  and  was  now 
hers,  and  finding  that  some  one's  care  had  already  let  down 
the  windows,  and  kindled  a  little  fire  on  the  hearth,  she 
washed  her  face  and  hands  and  naked  feet,  and  returned  to 
the  outer  apartment ;  and  after  walking  to  the  fire  and 
wanning  her  chilled  limbs,  and  going  to  the  corner  cup- 
board and  eating  a  piece  of  bread  and  meat,  with  a  draught 
•f  home-brewed  beer,  finding  herself  in  solitude,  deter- 
mined to  spend  her  evening  as  she  always  did  upon  the 


15*  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

•*are  occasions  of  her  having  the  house  to  herself.  So,  in- 
stead of  taking  her  basket  of  cotton- wool  to  pick,  she  went 
to  the  rude  book-shelf  that  contained  the  small  library  of 
the  farm-house,  and  looked  for  something  to  read  among 
what,  child  as  she  was,  she  had  already  waded  through 
many  times ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  Holy  Bible, 
such  books  as  they  were  for  a  little  girl's  study — Fox's 
Christian  Martyrs,  with  all  its  horrible  pictures,  History 
of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  History  of  the  Spanish  Inqui- 
sition, were  mixed  up  with  books  on  Farriery,  Agriculture, 
Medicine,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. ;  and  through  all,  proper  or  im- 
proper, good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  had  the  lonely,  musing, 
and  eager  child  waded.  Her  strong,  voracious,  aud  starv- 
ing mind  bolted  every  thing  that  came  in  its  way.  She 
now  took  down  the  History  of  the  Spanish  Inquisition, 
and  sitting  in  the  chimney-corner,  in  the  strong  blaze  of  the 
firelight,  began  to  pore  over  its  dark  pages. 

So  deeply  absorbed  was  she  in  this,  that  she  did  not  hear 
the  door  open  aud  shut  violently,  or  a  heavy  step  approach 
her,  until  a  strong  hand  fell  hard  upon  her  shoulder,  grasp- 
ing it  roughly,  and  a  stern  voice  exclaimed : 

"  So,  mistress,  you  are  here  I  Where  have  you  been  all 
day  and  all  night,  while  I  have  been  tramping  through 
forest,  field,  and  moor,  in  quest  of  you  ?" 

Awakened  roughly  from  a  deep,  deep  dream,  her  spirit 
recalled  from  a  far,  far  journey  into  the  distance  of  time  and 
Bpace,  Magdalene  slowly  lifted  her  long,  languid  lashes,  and 
gazed  vaguely  at  him  with  her  shadowy  eyes.  He  repeated 
the  question  in  a  louder  tone,  shaking  her  roughly,  and  lift- 
ing her  upon  her  feet;  the  book  fell  from  her  hands,  and 
she  stood  there  in  a  sort  of  calm  bewilderment,  still  unpre- 
pared to  reply  to  him.  With  a  third  and  more  violent  shake, 
Adam  Hawk  brought  Magdalene  quite  to  her  senses,  and 
then  slowly  and  sternly  repeated  his  question. 


INDIAN     BLOOD.  155 

"  Where  have  you  been  all  day  and  night  7" 

"  Sitting  on  the  terrace  of  Prospect  Hall,  or  wandering 
in  the  forest  behind  it." 

"  Nowhere  else  7"  asked  Adam,  frowning  darkly. 

"  No,  father,  nowhere  else — from  the  forest  straight 
home,"  replied  Magdalene,  quietly. 

"  WHAT  !  have  you  not  been  to  St.  Leonard's,  to  see  the 
execution  7"  . 

"  Father,  you  told  me  not  to  go,  and  I  never  disobeyed 
you  in  my  life." 

"  You  have  done  it  in  this  instance  !  Take  care.  Con- 
fess, now,  that  you  have  been  at  St.  Leonard's." 

"  Father,  I  have  been  nowhere  but  to  the  places  I  told 
you." 

Adam  Hawk  drew  up  his  lofty,  dark  form  to  its  full 
height,  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  thunder  at  the  child. 
Very  ferocious  looked  Adam  Hawk,  with  his  tall,  gaunt 
form,  his  dark,  aquiline  features,  and  the  ten  years'  growth 
of  grizzled  hair  and  beard,  hanging  in  unkempt  elf  locks 
down  his  cheeks  and  bosom — very  ferocious  in  the  best  of 
humors,  and  terrible  in  his  wrath. 

But  he  never  was  an  object  of  terror  to  the  undaunted 
cnild. 

"Look  up  into  my  face,  mistress." 

"  I  am  looking  at  it." 

"No*',  then,  tell  me  that,  since  you  left  me  this  morning, 
you  have  been  nowhere  but  to  the  terrace  of  Prospect  Hall, 
and  the  forest,  and  thence  home." 

"  I  am  doing  it.  I  am  looking  at  you  now,  and  I  tell 
you  that  I  have  been  nowhere  since  I  left  you  this  morning, 
except  to  the  terrace  of  the  Hall,  and  the  forest,  and  home," 
said  Magdalene,  with  unfaltering  tone,  and  unflinching 
gaze 

"You  LIE!"  thundered  Adam  Hawk.  Magdalene  started 


Io6  THE     T  WO     S  I  ti  T  K  R  3 

and  flushed  crimson,  as  though  smitten  upon  the  brow,  but 
she  did  not  reply.  She  quickly  composed  herself,  and  cast 
down  her  eyes. 

"  Confess  instantly  that  you  have  been  to  St.  Leonard's,  and 
that  you  have  lied  to  conceal  your  fault  and  escape  punish- 
ment!"  commanded  the  father;  but  the  child  was  silent, 
moveless.  "  Confess,  instantly,  or  I  will  thrash  you  within 
an  inch  of  your  life,  and  until  you  do  /" 

But  Magdalene  never  opened  her  compressed  lips,  or 
raised  her  downcast  eyes.  Something  in  the  matchless 
beauty,  purity,  and  patience  of  her  air  touched  his  heart, 
and  perhaps  deceived  him,  for  he  said,  in  a  less  harsh 
voice  : 

"'Repent  and  confess,  and  I  will  forgive  you." 

This  softened  tone  succeeded  better  with  Magdalene,  for 
now  raising  her  eyes  to  his  face  with  a  sort  of  sorrowful 
dignity,  very  strange  and  affecting  in  a  child,  she  said  : 

"  '  Liars  are  not  believed  even  when  they  speak  the  truth.' 
Lips  accused  of  lying  should  close  themselves  forever.  Until 
you  trust  me,  I  will  be  silent." 

"  WHAT  !"  vociferated  Adam  Hawk,  astounded  and  en- 
raged at  a  resistance  so  unexpected  and  invincible,  yet  so 
calm;  "WHAT!"  he  thundered,  as  underneath  his  darken- 
ing brow  his  hawk  eyes  started,  seeming  to  grapple  her 
form  with  a  hook-like  clutch.  He  who  had  been  the  awful, 
absolute  master  of  his  household  for  half  a  centpry,  and 
never  before  met  opposition — he  whose  wife  and  child  had 
been  greater  slaves  to  his  own  will  than  any  negro  on  the 
plantation,  to  be  defied  now  by  an  infant,  his  grandchild  ! 
It  was  incredible  !  it  was  astounding  !  it  was  stupendous  ! 
the  criminality  of  the  thing*  was  even  lost  in  its  marvelous- 
ness  !  Adam  Hawk  did  not  stop  to  consider  that  his  first 
slave,  his  wife,  had  been  of  another  race ;  that  as  for  his 
child,  traits  of  character  are  not  reproduced  in  the  second. 


INDIAN      BLOOD.  157 

but  in  the  third  generation,  and  that  in  his  grandchild  his 
infant  SELF  was  opposed  to  him. — "  WHAT  !"  he  roared, 
and  thrust  out  his  talon  hand,  as  though  he  would  have 
seized  the  child,  but  withdrawing  it  suddenly,  as  though  he 
feared  to  trust  her  form  in  his  own  grasp.  He  turned  and 
strode  away,  and  reaching  a  whip  from  a  rack  across  which 
it  lay,  he  approached  her,  shaking  it  sternly.  "  Come, 
mistress,  we  will  see  how  long  this  vow  of  silence  will  be 
held.  SPEAK  !  Confess  that  you  have  disobeyed  me  :  that 
you  went  to  St  Leonard's,  and  that  you  have  lied  to  con 
ceal  your  fault  and  escape  punishment.  Speak,  minion 
Confess,  before  this  lash  descends  upon  you." 

Magdalene  was  unmoved.  Magdalene  was  naturally  firm 
as  a  rock,  and  just  now  her  enthusiasm  had  been  kindled, 
by  reading  of  the  firmness  and  constancy  of  martyred  virtue 
— and  now  in  her  outraged  truth  and  integrity — the  rack  ! 
the  rack  !  would  not  have  drawn  one  word  from  her  lips 
And  now,  furious  with  anger,  Adam  Hawk  raised  the  lash 
that  would  assuredly  have  descended  upon  the  shoulders  of 
the  proud  and  beautiful  child,  but  that  the  door  was  sud- 
denly burst  open  by  the  Goblin,  who  had  evidently  been 
eaves-dropping,  and  who  now  breaking  in,  .caught  the  up- 
raised arm  of  the  enraged  man,  exclaiming, 

"  Ah  !  for  Gor  A'mighty's  sake,  marster,  don't,  don't. 
Try  moral  'snading  little  longer,  affore  you  result  to  carnal 
weepons,  as  a,  as  a  derned  assault  1  (dernier  resort) — try 
moral  'snading." 

"  There  I"  said  Adam  Hawk,  lowering  the  whip.  "  There  ! 
there  is  one  before  whom  you  cannot  persist  in  your  lie,  or 
your  lying  silence.  Uncle  Biggs  saw  you  go,  and  gave  me 
information." 

Magdalene  turned  her  large  eyes  slowly,  inquiringly  upon 
the  Goblin,  who  said,  iu  answer  to  that  mute  appeal — what, 
by  the  way,  he  really  thought, 


158  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Yes,  honey,  I  seen  you  go,  yon  know  I  did  !  Yon 
Fprang  off  like  a  kittenamouut !  and  away  you  went  a 
scattering  down  the  st%ps  as  fast  as  you  could  go,  soon  as 
ever  I  told  you  how  you  might  be  in  time.  'Deed  'fore  my 
hebenly  'Deemer  you  did,  chile  !  Now,  don't  'ny  ;  wieM  to 
moral  'suadin'l" 

"  Confess  !"  vociferated  Adam  Hawk.  But  Magdalene's 
large  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground,  again,  and  her  lips 
compressed  together.  "  CONFESS  !"  thundered  Adam  Hawk, 
elevating  the  lash  ;  but  the  firm  lips  were  motionless,  not 
even  the  scorn  corroding  her  young  bosom  curled  them. 
"  TAKE  THIS,  THEN  !"  and  again  the  lash  was  whirled  into 
the  air,  and  would  have  descended  with  a  sharp  rasp 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  child,  but  that  with  a  cry  of 
mingled  anguish  and  despair,  and  with  the  bound  of  a 
panther,  she  cleared  the  width  of  the  room  and  sprang  upon 
a  table  where  she  stood  at  bay ;  and  no  leopard  at  bay 
could  have  looked  more  splendidly,  terribly  beautiful  than 
that  child  as  she  stood  there  consuming  with  the  fierce 
anguish  of  her  impotent  wrath,  and  shame — as  she  stood 
there  with  the  smoldering  fire  of  the  blood  of  a  thousand 
Weerowancees  flaming  through  her  crimson  cheeks  and 
blazing  eyes  !  Again  the  madman,  for  such  Adam  Hawk 
now  was,  rushed  furiously  upon  her,  when  a  loud  knock  at 
the  door  was  followed  by  the  instantaneous  presence  of 
Bruin  the  Deformed,  whose  electric  apprehension  took  in 
the  whole  scene  at  a  glance. 

"Brute!  Demon!  what  were  you  about  to  do?"  ex- 
claimed he,  seizing  the  whip  from  the  hand  of  Adam,  and 
whirling  it  away  through  the  open  window. 

"  I  was  about  to  chastise  her  for  falsehood  I  How  dare 
you  interfere  ?"  growled  the  old  man,  turning  upon  the 
dwarf. 

"  Her,  for  falsehood  !"  sneered  Bruin,  going  «p  to  the 


INDIAN      B  L  O  O  I)  .  159 

table  and  looking  with  enthusiasm  at  Magdalene,  "  Her — 
little  Indian  princess  !  Her,  for  falsehood  !  Adam  Hawk, 
I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was  a  babe,  but  now,  looking 
at  her,  I  tell  you,  Adam  Hawk,  that  she  never  told  a  false- 
hood in  her  life !  That  she  would  not  have  lied  to  have 
saved  your  neck  from  the  rope,  and  your  soul  from  eternal 
perdition,  even  when  she  loved  you — as  she  will  never  love 
you  again  /"  said  the  dwarf,  as  he  raised  his  arms,  in  a 
gingerly  manner,  however,  as  though  he  was  about  to  take 
hold  of  a  young  catamount.  But  Magdalene's  countenance 
softened — softened  into  that  mellow  and  beautiful  languor 
common  to  her  face,  and  to  the  leopard's  in  repose,  and  she 
passed  her  arm  around  his  neck  and  suffered  him  to  lift  her 
from  the  table. 

"  I  will  not  be  balked  so  !  I  will  not  be  trampled  upon 
in  my  own  house  I"  muttered  the  old  man,  in  deep  reverbe- 
rating tones  of  retiring  thunder,  as  his  fury  began  to  subside 
under  the  new  impression  that  he  might  have  been  wrong. 
"I  will  in  it  be  balked  so  1  If  she  has  told  a  falsehood  she 
shall  be  severely  punished  !" 

"  And  what  shall  be  done  with  you  if  you  have  wrongly 
abused  her  ?  hey  ?  Parents  can  do  no  wrong,  I  suppose  !" 

"Bruin!  I—" 

"  Tut,  man,  is  this  the  way  in  which  you  receive  an  old 
comrade  after  a  ten  years'  absence  ?  But,  no  matter  for 
me.  I  came  to  tell  you  that  the  brig  Confidence  has  cast 
anchor  below,  and  that  Judge  Washington,  with  his  family, 
are  on  board  !  He  has  come  to  the  main  land  with  the  in- 
tention of  procuring  better  assistance  in  the  education  of  his 
granddaughter  and  heiress,  Miss  Washington,  my  island 
maiden  !  my  Miranda,  as  I  call  her — I  being  Caliban  at  her 
service,  and  yours  and  everybody's  !" 

"  Judge  Washington  below  1  This  is  sudden  !"  said 
Adam  Hawk,  thoughtfully. 


Jt30  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Ah  1  he  has  come  upon  you  in  an  hour  you  wist  no 
of.  I  hope  he  will  find  yon  watching  :  lamps  filled  and 
trimmed  and  burning  !" 

"  1  am  prepared  to  render  an  account  of  my  stewardship  ! 
Judge  Washington  below  1  Well,  this  is  sudden  !  How  is 
the  Judge  and  the  young  lady  ?" 

"  The  Judge  is  hale,  and  the  young  lady,  my  island 
queen,  is — but  did  I  not  tell  you  that  you  are  to  gear  up 
the  carriage  and  drive  down  to  the  beach  immediately,  and 
bring  them  up  ?  They  are  to  sleep  here  to-night — the 
mansion-house  being  considered  too  damp  and  cold  until  it 
has  been  aired  and  wanned  with  fires  a  day  or  two." 

"  I  would  that  I  had  known  of  his  purposed  arrival.  I 
might  have  had  the  mansion-house  made  comfortable  for  his 
reception,"  said  Adam  Hawk,  thoughtfully. 

"  Oh,  aye,  and  a  great  many  other  things  in  better  readi- 
ness I  But  courage,  man  !  1  know  you  do  not  grudge 
your  hospitality  to  the  master  of  the  estate,  and  for  the  rest 
— why  you  know  it  is  not  the  first  time,  by  many  hundreds, 
that  Joseph  Washington  has  ate  and  slept  in  this,  that  was 
his  birth-place,  and  his  residence  for  forty  years.  Come 
hurry,  friend  Adam  ;  hurry,  gear  up  and  go  down  for  them, 
while  I  stir  Goblin  up  and  have  supper  got  against  they 
get  here.  Have  you  no  woman  about  the  place  ?" 

"  No,  I  hate  to  have  women  about  when  I  can  do  with- 
out the  creeturs :  but  I  will  send  one  from  the  quarters  as  I 
go,"  said  Adam  Hawk,  leaving  the  house. 

"  Go,  Gulliver,  and  get  together  the  best  you  can  for  your 
master's  supper,"  said  the  dwarf;  and  as  soon  as  Gulliver 
was  gone,  and  he  was  alone  with  the  child,  he  sat  down  and 
called  her  to  him.  Magdalene  approached,  and  stood 
before  him.  He  drew  her  between  his  knees,  and  laying  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders,  looked  at  her  long  and  wistfully  ; 
she  returning  his  searching  gaze.  And  so  the  old,  deformed 


INDIAN      BLOOD.  161 

mun  and  the  beautiful  child  understood  each  ther  per- 
"ectly. 

"  You  were  very  deeply  moved  just  now,  Madgdalene  ?" 
said  the  dwarf. 

"Yes — if  he  had  struck  me,  I  should  have  killed  myself! 
I  did  not  say  it,  or  think  it  then,  but  the  more  I  think  of  it 
now,  the  worse  I  think  of  it ;  and  the  surer  I  feel  that  if  ho 
had  struck  me,  I  should  kill  myself." 

"I  believe  it!  firmness,  self-esteem,  destructiveness,  mon 
strous  !"  muttered  the  dwarf  to  himself — and  then  he  added 
aloud — "  Magdalene,  you  are  not  raging,  but  you  have  more 
malign  feelings  now  toward  your  grandfather,  tnan  half  an 
hour  ago,  when  you  openly  deiied  him  I" 

"  It  is  deeper  down,"  said  the  child  ;  "  the  more  I  think 
of  it,  the  worse  I  hate  it — and  I  cannot  help  thinking  of 
it!" 

"I  know  it!  firmness,  conceutrativeness,  immense  !" 

"But  how  did  you  know  that  I  would  not  tell  a  false 
hood  ?  It  was  true  !  I  would  not,  no  !  not  to  save  myself 
from  being  torn  to  pieces  by  wild  beasts — not  to  save  my 
self  from  being  cast  into  the  flames  and  burned  alive  to 
cinders,  would  I  tell  a  falsehood,  or  do  a  single  thing  to 
make  me  feel  mean  /" 

"Conscientiousness,  self-esteem,  inordinate,"  muttered 
the  dwarf  to  himself,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  stately 
head. 

"But  how  did  you — whom  I  never  remember  to  have  seen 
before — know  that  I  would  not ;  while  he  who  has  brought 
me  up  from  infancy,  suspected  me  ?" 

"  My  child,  from  your  head  and  face  as  well  as  from  your 
air  and  manner — though  the  latter,  except  in  childhood,  ia 
not  so  sure  a  guide,  as  it  can  be  assumed ;  but  on  the 
former,  my  child,  on  the  face  and  head,  the  character  is 
written  as  plainly,  its  clearly,  and  as  truly,  for  those  who  cau 


lb'2  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

read  the  language,  as  the  letter-press  of  a  printed  volume 
Magdalene,  you  are  a  wonderfully  beautiful  child  ;  and  you 
will  be  an  eminently  beautiful  woman — that  is  a  great  deal, 
but  it  is  a  little  to  what  I  am  about  to  say.  Magdalene, 
you  are  a  very  bad  and  a  very  good  child  I  you  are  endowed 
with  strong  passions,  strong  intellect,  and  a  strong  will. 
There  is  no  medium  course  for  you  in  life  ;  an  ignoble  or  u 
brilliant  destiny  will  be  yours.  Infamy  or  fame,  disgrace  or 
dominion,  is  written  in  letters  of  fire  upon  tablets  of  iron  in 
your  character.  Were  you  a  man,  Magdalene,  and  in 
Europe,  I  should  say  a  scaffold  or  a  crown  would  complete 
your  destiny  :  as  it  is,  Magdalene,  you  will  be  a  great  crimi- 
nal or  an  illustrious  woman  !  Why  do  I  talk  to  you  so,  ray 
child  ?  because  I  cannot  help  it.  Magdalene,  you  appear 
unmoved  by  what  I  have  said,  but  you  arc  not  so — it  is 
your  steel-like  nerves;  You  partly  understand  me,  little 
one  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  blood  runs  cold,  and — hot !  Tell  me,  tell  me 
how  I  may  keep  from  being  a  bad — how  I  may  become  a 
good  and  great  woman  ?" 

"  Ah,  Magdalene,  other  agencies,  other  agencies  !  the 
soul  is  being  educated  for  good  or  evil  far  enough  out  of 
the  sphere  of  my  knowledge  and  influence — which  is  to  de- 
stroy or  perfect  yours  1" 

They  gazed  at  each  other  in  silence — the  dwarf  profoundly 
studying  the  greatest  soul  for  good  or  evil  that  had  ever 
fallen  under  his  notice — the  child  trying  to  read  in  the  eyes 
of  the  seer  the  mysteries  of  the  future ;  and  within  the  door 
stood  one  as  profoundly  studying  them  both,  Gulliver  Goblin, 
the  whites  of  whose  upturned  eyes  gleamed  in  the  firelight  as 
he  muttered  to  himself — "  Marster  Jesus  1  as  sartin  as  that 
child  is  a  witch  that  'tother  is  a  conjurer  1" 

Only  for  a  moment  remained  they  thus — when  the  sound 
of  approaching  footsteps  and  voices  aroused  them,  ami  ;t 


INDIAN     BLOOD.  163 

couple  of  negro  women,  hastily  summoned  from  the  quarters, 
entered  to  set  the  table  for  supper. 

"Now,  my  child,"  said  the  dwarf,  releasing  Magdalene, 
"  you  must  go  and  prepare  a  nice  bed-chamber  for  a  little 
girl  about  your  age  and  size.  I  suppose  you  have  heard 
of  the  Judge's  grandchild,  Virginia  ?" 

"Miss  "Washington,  the  great  county  heiress — she  who 
will  have  the  two  largest  estates  on  the  Western  shore,  be- 
sides the  island  in  the  bay — she  whom  they  call  the  little 
Island  Princess — yes  1  all  my  life  I  have  heard  a  great  deal 
of  her.  She  shall  have  my  bed-room  ;  it  is  the  best  in  the 
house." 

And  Magdalene  left  him  and  went  into  the  inner  cham- 
ber to  prepare  it  for  the  little  guest.  She  kindled  a  bright 
tire,  swept  up  the  hearth  neatly,  painted  it  with  the  red- 
ochre  from  the  swanips ;  then  going  to  her  press,  she  took 
out  the  hoarded  treasures  of  her  chamber,  the  quilt  of 
scarlet  stars  on  a  white  ground,  and  the  knotted  white 
toilet-cover — both  the  work  of  her  mother's  fingers — and 
placed  one  upon  the  bed  and  the  other  upon  the  chest  of 
drawers ;  and  lastly,  she  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  laying 
her  sacrilegious  hands  upon  the  hanging  book-shelf,  carried 
it  with  all  its  volumes — Farriery,  Family  Physician,  Poultry 
Breeding,  and  all — into  the  chamber,  and  hung  it  over  the 
mantel-piece,  as  the  crowning  glory  of  the  unaccustomed 
magnificence. 

She  had  scarcely  completed  that,  when  the  sound  of 
many  feet  and  many  voices  summoned  her  to  the  outer  room 
to  see  the  newly-arrived  guests. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

VIEGINI A. 

"  A  thing  all  lightness,  life,  and  glee, 

One  of  the  shape*  we  seem 
To  meet  in  visions  of  the  night, 
And  should  they  greet  our  waking  sight, 

Imagine  that  we  dream  !" — Qeorye  Hill. 

"  She  IB  active,  stirring,  all  fire, 

Cannot  rest,  cannot  tire 

To  a  stone  she  had  given  life !" — Browning. 

As  Magdalene  entered  the  hall  by  one  door,  the  opposite 
door  opened,  admitting  first  an  elderly  gentleman  of  stately 
appearance,  clothed  in  complete  black,  and  next  a  youth 
of  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years,  of  slender  form,  fair  com- 
plexion, large,  clear  eyes,  and  broad  brow,  shaded  by  waves 
of  pale  golden  hair.  He  led  by  the  hand  a  little  girl,  whose 
dazzling  radiance  of  beauty  seemed  to  flash  upon  the  vision 
with  the  sudden  splendor  of  a  sun-burst. 

Virginia  Washington  was  a  blonde  of  the  most  brilliant 
type.  She,  too,  was  tall  and  full  formed  for  her  age,  and 
might  rather  have  been  taken  for  twelve  than  for  ten  years 
of  age.  Her  complexion  was  of  that  snowy,  frosty  fair- 
ness only  seen  with  brilliant  ulta-marine  blue  eyes,  and 
resplendent  golden  red  hair,  the  last  crowning  feature  of 
her  glorious  beauty.  This  splendid  head  of  hair,  after  en- 
circling her  brow  with  a  halo  of  light,  fell  in  many  luxu- 
rious spiral  ringlets  far  below  her  waist.  She  stepped  into 
the  room  "  like  some  glad  creature  of  the  air,''  with  smiling 
lip  and  smiling  eye,  and  only  withheld  from  dancing  for- 
ward by  the  restraining  hand  of  the  earnest-browed  youth. 


VIRGINIA.  165 

Adam  Hawk  entered  last,  and  immediately  set  forward 
a  large  arm-chair  for  the  Judge,  while  he  also  ordered 
supper  to  be  served.  The  Judge  seated  himself  with  a 
weary,  though  stately  air;  and  the  youth  led  the  maiden  to 
a  chair,  and  drew  another  for  himself  to  her  side.  Magda- 
lene stood  shyly  off  for  a  moment,  and  then,  after  looking 
attentively  at  Virginia,  she  went  tip  to  her  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice  : 

"  Miss  Washington,  I  think  I  shall  like  you  very  much, 
but  I  am  not  sure  yet.  I  am  gladder  to  see  you  than  I 
thought  I  should  be.  I  have  got  my  room  fixed  very  nicely 
for  you.  Will  yon  come  into  it  and  take  off  your  bonnet 
while  supper  is  bringing  in  ?" 

Virginia  started  when  first  spoken  to,  and  looked  at 
Magdalene  with  her  intense,  brilliant  blue  eyes  brought 
full  upon  her;  then  holding  out  her  hand,  suddenly,  impul- 
sively, she  said  : 

"  And  I  don't  think  at  all,  but  I  know  that  I  like  yon 
very  much.  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Magdalene  Hawk." 

"  I  do  not  think,  then,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  like 
you  very  much  indeed,  Magdalene.  You  are  beautiful  as 
the  starlight  nights  on  the  ocean !" 

"  And  you,  Virginia,  are  lovely  as  the  summer  morning 
on  the  plains  !" 

"And  I  think  that  we  are  both  two  very  clever  girls, 
Magdalene,  with  the  gift  of  admiring  each  other,"  said 
Virginia ;  and  then  her  silvery  laugh  rang  out  upon  the 
air,  shocking  Adam  Hawk's  solemn  home  from  ts  pro- 
priety; and  springing  quickly  up,  she  said  : 
!  come  !  come  !  I'm  ready. 


And  thus  singing  and  swinging  h«r  bonnet,  .she  danced  for- 
10 


16(5  THE     TWO     SISTKRS. 

ward,  preceded  by  Magdalene,  into  the  bed-room.  She 
had  only  time  to  take  off  her  pelisse  before  they  were  called 
to  supper. 

Immediately  after  supper,  as  it  was  quite  late,  Judge 
Washington  requested  to  be  shown  to  his  sleeping-room, 
and  Adam  Hawk,  taking  a  lamp,  preceded  him  and  Joseph 
up-stairs.  Magdalene  lighted  a  taper,  and  attended  Vir- 
ginia to  her  chamber. 

''  I  wish  you  would  sleep  in  here  with  me,  Magdalene 
Where  are  you  going  to  sleep  ?" 

"On  the  settle  in  the  hall." 

"  Oh,  that  will  never  do  1  I  am  afraid  I  have  got  your 
sleeping  apartment,  Magdalene.  Yes,  indeed.  Now  1  look 
around  it,  it  must  be  yours." 

"Yes,  it  is  mine,  but  I  hope  you  will  be  comfortable  in 
it — don't  mind  me,  I  sleep  soundly  anywhere,  generally, — 
often  summer  nights  I  have  gone  out  through  this  other 
door  that  leads  into  the  flower  garden,  and  I  have  laid  down 
in  the  dewy  grass  and  have  slept  finely  all  night — the  night 
air  and  the  dew  not  hurting  me  any  more  than  it  hurts  the 
plants  or  the  cattle — as,  indeed,  why  should  it  ? — but  to- 
night," added  the  child,  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "  to-night 
I  could  not  sleep  anywhere" 

"  Why,  Magdalene  ?  why  could  you  not  sleep  anywhere 
to-night  ?  You  say  that  so  sadly  !  Are  you  like  me  with 
my  faults  of  temper  ?  Have  you  flown  into  a  passion,  and 
hurt  and  wronged  some  one  you  love  ?  Poor  Magdalene  ! 
I  know  what  that  grief  is  ;  make  friends  with  them  again, 
Magdalene — that  is  the  best  way  !" 

"  No,  you  mistake — I  never  wronged  any  one,  even  the 
smallest  insect,  in  my  life  ;  and  I  never  flew  into  a  passion. 
But  I  have  been  wronged,  and  a  hate  is  slowly,  darkly  tiding 
•'nto  my  soul,  like  the  great  midnight  tide,  and  I  cannot 
'wist  it !" 


VIRGINIA.  167 

Virginia  seemed  to  bring  the  bright  rays  of  her  golden- 
fringed  blue  eyes  into  an  intensely  brilliant  focus  upon 
Magdalene's  starlight  face,  and  then  she  said, 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  Magdalene  !  But  you 
are  unhappy,  and  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Yon  cannot  sleep  ! 
Pray!  '  God  giveth  His  beloved  sleep,'  you  know." 

"  God  is  a  God  of  Vengeance  !  He  will  understand  me," 
said  Magdalene. 

"  He  is  a  God  of  Love  !  He  will  forgive  and  pity — teach 
and  redeem  yon,  Magdalene.  He  does  that  for  me  every 
day." 

"  I  have  done  no  wrong — need  no  forgiveness — and  ask 
no  pity !" 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  it,  Magdalene  ?"  asked  Virginia, 
gently,  as  she  kneeled  down  to  her  traveling  trunk  to  take 
out  her  night-dress. 

"  No,  I  did  not  intend  to  say  any  thing — it  escaped  me  ! 
I  will  see  you  at  rest,  Miss  Washington,  and  bid  you  good- 
night!" 

"  Oh,  no  !  do  not  leave  me  !  stay  with  me  all  night  I — 
indeed  you  must;  for  if  you  go  and  lie  on  the  settle,  /shall 
not  sleep  at  all." 

"  You  need  not  be  troubled  for  me,  Miss  Washington,  I 
shall  be  very  comfortable." 

"Magdalene!"  said  she,  caressingly,  "do  stay  with  me; 
in  a  strange  room  I  feel  somehow  afraid  to  stay  alone ;  be- 
sides, I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  great  deal. 

"I  will  stay  with  you,  then,  Miss  Washington." 

"  Call  me  Virginia." 

"  Virginia,  then — I  will  stay  with  you,  and  I  think  that  1 
shall  even  prefer  it,  for  I  feel  as  if  I  should  love  you,  Vir- 
ginia!" said  Magdalene,  gravely. 

But  at  this  Virginia  langhed  aloud,  and  throwing  her 
arms  around  Magdalene's  neck,  impetuously  hugged  her 


108  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

until  all  her  resplendent  red  ringlets  swept  around  our  gipsy 
child,  enveloping  her  as  in  a  flame,  crowing — 

"  Oh,  you  Magdalene  ! — you  star-bright  Magdalene  I—- 
yes, still  and  bright,  high  and  solemn  as  the  stars  1  You 
are  coming  on  to  love  me,  slowly,  darkly,  coldly,  as  the 
night  comes  on  to  love  the  earth— and  you  tell  me  so, 
Indian  princess  !  with  such  an  owllike  gravity.  Now  when 
/  tell  any  one  I  love  them,  I  sing  it  into  them  ! — dance  it 
at  them  ! — let  it  loose  in  a  rain  of  sunbeams  around  them  1 — 
rattle  it  in  a  hailstorm  upon  them  ! — shower  it  in  a  deluge 
of  meteors  about  them  ! — batter  them  with  it ! — bombard 
them  with  it ! — dazzle,  bewilder,  confound,  and  terrify  them 
with  it !  Oh,  I  am  a  galvanic  battery  to  those  I  love  1 
Take  care  of  me  !"  All  this  time  she  was  hugging  Magda- 
lene spasmodically  with  her  arms,  at  the  same  time  that  she 
was  dancing  frantically  with  her  feet,  convulsed  as  it  were 
with  the  very  exuberance  and  wantonness  of  life,  fun,  and 
frolic.  "  Magdalene  I"  she  said,  at  last,  "you  are  the  first 
girl  I  ever  met  with,  and  I  love  you  so  dearly." 

"  You  are  also  the  first  girl  I  ever  met  with,  and,  Virginia, 
I  feel  that  I  shall  love  you  very  much  1"  said  Magdalene, 
quietly,  and  without  returning  her  fervent  caresses. 

"The  future  tense!  always  the  future  tense,  thou  far- 
seeing  little  priestess !"  laughed  Virginia,  gathering  her 
flashing  ringlets,  and  crowding  them  into  a  little  lace  cap. 

When  the  little  girls  were  in  bed,  and  Virginia  had 
thrown  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  Magdalene  and  dropped 
her  head  upon  her  bosom — she  whispered — 

"  Are  you  sleepy,  Magdalene  ?" 

"No,  I  told  you  that  I  could  not  sleep  to-night," 

"Neither  can  / — every  thing  seems  so  strange  and 
charming !  Well,  then,  Magdalene,  we  will  talk — do 
you  know  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  we  have  slept 
together  ?" 


VIRGINIA.  169 

"  No !"  said  Magdalene,  with  serene  surprise,  '•  I  did  not 
Know  it!" 

"  Really  !  but  did  you  not  know  that  we  had  been  foster 
sisters  ?" 

"Had  been— what*" 

"  That  you  and  I  had  been  nursed  at  the  same  bosom, 
and  slept  in  the  same  cradle  for  the  first  six  months  of  our 
lives — that  is  to  say,  until  our  mother  went  to  heaven  ?" 

"  No,  I  knew  nothing  of  all  this — it  is  all  strange  and 
new  to  me — I  never  thought  we  had  met  before — I  only 
knew  we  were  both  orphans." 

Virginia  then  began,  and  told  her  all  she  knew,  from 
hearsay,  of  their  mutual  history,  and  this  only  dated  from 
the  day  of  Magdalene's  adoption  by  Mary  Washington. 
In  conclusion,  she  said — 

"  Magdalene,  they  tell  me  that  I  did  not  cry  when  our 
mother  went  to  heaven,  because  I  did  not  know  it ;  but 
that  when  you — from  whom  I  had  never  been  parted  an 
hour,  sleeping  or  waking — when  you  were  taken  from  me, 
that  then  I  stormed  like  a  young  hurricane — while  you  who 
were  not  like  me,  fire  and  tow — you,  patient  child,  and  slow 
to  anger,  suifered  yourself  to  be  carried  off  without  a  mur- 
mur. Well,  then,  Magdalene,  they  tell  me  that  my  brother 
was  brought  in — not  my  own,  but  my  adopted  brother 
Joseph,  and  that  he  only  could  quiet  me.  I  Relieve  that  I 
Oh  !  Magdalene  !  that  brother  of  mine  ! — that  brothei 
Joseph  ! — our  angel-mother  had  such  faith  in  him,  child  as 
he  was,  that  she  begged  grandfather  never  to  part  us  until 
we  grew  up,  and  our  road  in  life  divided  of  itself.  Well, 
Magdalene,  they  say  that  the  first  night  I  slept  alone.  I 
awoke  in  the  night,  hungry  and  cold — for  the  night  was 
chilly — and  that  I  cried  a  long  time  without  waking  Aunt 
Polly  Pepper,  who  was  fatigued,  and  slept  soundly — but 
thai  little  Josey  was  lying  awake  and  heard  me  weeping, 


170  THE     TTVO     SISTERS. 

And  came  down  and  gave  me  the  milk  that  sat  there  for  me 
to  drink,  and  then  lay  down  in  the  cradle  by  me,  and  patted 
me  to  sleep,  and  that  so  we  were  found  in  the  morning, 
both  asleep.  So  used  was  I  to  you,  Magdalene,  that  I 
could  not  sleep  without  a  little  child — it  was  a  habit  of 
affection  ;  and  so  after  that  grandfather  would  not  let  Josey 
and  I  be  separated,  and  we  slept  in  the  same  crib  until  I  was 
three  years  old.  That  brother  of  mine,  Magdalene  1 — oh,  he 
is  so  good  !  so  good  !  so  faithful  to  rebuke  my  faults,  yet  so 
patient  to  bear  with  them,  and  so  loving  to  forgive  them. 
Every  one  else  spoiled  me.  I  should  have  been  a  very  bad 
girl  had  it  not  been  for  Josey  always  with  me.  Very  willful 
I  am,  anyhow ;  I  know  I  am,  but  very  much  worse  I  should 
have  been  but  for  him.  Grandfather  is  the  best  and  wisest 
man  I  ever  knew,  or  heard,  or  read  of — but  he  was  not 
always  with  me  as  Joseph  was,  and  he  did  not  always  feel 
with  me  as  Joseph  did.  It  seemed  to  me  then  that  Josey 
was  God's  child,  and  now  it  seems  to  me  that  he  is  the 
Lord's  beloved  disciple !  Yes,  I  have  great  faults,  Magda- 
lene !  great  faults  !  but  if  anybody  can  lead  me  to  the  Lord, 
it  will  be  Joseph."  Virginia  paused  for  a  while  as  if  she  had 
fallen  into  a  short  reverie — then  she  said  :  "And  now,  Mag- 
dalene, though  you  have  scarcely  ever  heard  of  me — except 
as  the  fortunate  inheritor  of  all  this  great  plantation — 
though  you  have  never  certainly  heard  of  our  former 
relation,  yet  I  have  not  been  suffered  to  forget  you.  Bruin 
has  kept  you  in  my  memory.  I  longed  to  see  you,  Magda- 
lene ;  and  now  that  I  do  see  you,  I  like  you — and  it  seems 
so  natural  to  be  with  you  here.  You  do  not  answer  me, 
Magdalene.  You  are  in  a  study.  Of  what  are  you 
thinking  ?" 

Magdalene  had  indeed  been  all  this  time  with  her  head 
within  Virginia's  arms,  quite  still  and  silent.  Now  she 
answered  calmly, 


VIRGINIA.  171 

"  I  am  thinking  of  my  father ;  I  cannot  long  think  of 
any  thing  else.  Do  not  please  ask  me  any  more  about  my 
thoughts." 

And  she  was,  with  a  feeling  of  bitter  pain,'  strange  as 
new  to  her  young  heart.  And  long  after  her  restless  and 
excitable  little  bedfellow  had  fatigued  herself  to  sleep, 
Magdalene  lay  awake,  suffering  the  slow  but  sure  and  bitter 
antipathy  to  fill  her  heart — while  her  thoughts  concentrated 
themselves  upon  the  subject — while  her  soul  sat  in  judg- 
ment upon  her  only  moral  guide.  This  was  terrible,  and 
terrible  was  its  effect  upon  the  moral  character  of  the 
child. 

Early  in  the  morning  Virginia  jumped  out  of  bed — and, 
after  washing,  as  she  stood  in  the  morning  sunshine  that 
streamed  through  the  window,  her  joyous  expression,  her 
dazzling  complexion,  her  splendid  red  hair,  flashing,  scin- 
tillating in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  never  had  Magdalene  seen 
so  bright  a  human  thing — so  full  of  life  and  light  I 

"I  am  up,  you  see,  Magdalene!  I  am  so  impatient  to 
see  all  over  this  old  house — this  house  where  my  forefathers 
have  lived  for  more  than  two  hundred  years.  You  must 
show  me  all  over  it,  Magdalene."  And  so  she  rattled  on, 
as  she  hastily  dressed  herself  in  a  light  blue  silk  dress — 
which  by  chance — for  Virginia  was  innocent  of  the  arts  of 
the  toilet — brought  out  her  hair  and  complexion  radiantly 
The  first  thing  that  canght  her  quick  glance  was  the  book- 
shelf. She  tumbled  over  all  the  books  with  great  curiosity, 
and  then  turning  to  Magdalene,  inquired  where  hers  were. 

Magdalene  replied  that  those  were  all  she  ever  had  had  to 
read — that  they  had  been  left  there  by  the  Judge,  as  she 
had  heard,  for  the  use  of  the  overseer. 

"  And  very  good  books  for  the  overseer — there  are  farm- 
ing, gardening,  grazing,  and  stock  raising;  and  some  of 
these  histories — except  that  they  are  very  sanguinary — are 


172  THE     TWO     SlaTEKS. 

good  enough  for  anybody.  But,  Magdalene,  you  do  not 
say  that  you  have  read  these !" 

"Yes,  all  of  them.  I  have  had  no  others  to  read.  And 
as  for  the  sanguinary  histories,  I  like  them  very  much.  I 
am  a  little  girl,  but  when  I  read  of  the  martyrdoms,  I  know 
that  I  also  could  clench  my  teeth  and  hands,  and  suffer  to 
be  flayed  alive,  before  I  would  do — " 

"Any  thing  wrong?" 

"  Any  thing  I  did  not  want  to  do." 

"  I  wish  it  was  so  with  me,  but  I  am  timid  except  when 
my  Norse  blood  is  up,  and  then  I  am  violent,  though  my 
excitement  is  like  a  blaze  of  straws,  soon  gone.  Ah  me,  I 
wish  I  had  strength  and  courage  and  self-command." 

"  I  have  those,  but  I  wish  I  had  the  power  of  forgetting 
and  forgiving  !" 

"  Some  one  has  wronged  you,  Magdalene,  and  you  do 
not  wish  to  tell  me,  and  I  will  not  ask  you  who  it  is  ;  but 
this  I  will  say,  that  if  every  one  /  am  sometimes  unjust  or 
unkind  to,  treasured  it  up  against  me,  I  should  be  very 
unhappy,  and  altogether  discouraged  from  trying  to  be 
good.  Now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something  pleasant  to 
put  all  gloomy  feelings  away."  added  the  child,  suddenly 
changing  her  grave  tone  to  one  of  cheerfulness — "  Oh, 
Magdalene,  I  shall  have  such  pleasure  in  introducing  you 
to  my  books,  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  oh  !  the  book  I  have 
lately  begun  to  like,  by  the  unknown  author  of  Waverley. 
Yes,  Magdalene,  you  shall  some  day  go  with  me  to  my 
island  home,  my  little  kingdom,  of  which  I  am  the  solitary 
little  queen,  and  I  will  show  you  my  little  palace  of  white 
freestone,  and  my  library,  and  my  garden — my  ocean  isle, 
where  Joseph  says  that  father,  I,  and  Bruin,  live  like  Pros- 
pero,  Miranda,  and  Caliban — only  I  am  a  very  naughty 
little  Miranda,  and  Bruin  is  a  very  amiable  Caliban." 

As  they  were  now  both  dressed,  the  girls  went  out  into 


VIRGINIA.  17,3 

the  hall,  where  the  breakfast-table  was  set,  and  where  the 
family  ard  visitors  had  already  gathered.  As  Virginia 
made  her  appearance,  Joseph  arose  from  his  seat,  and  ap- 
proaching her  with  an  expression  of  ineffable  tenderness 
and  affection  beaming  from  his  serenely  beautiful  face,  took 
her  hand,  pressed  it,  and  led  her  to  a  seat  near  the  6re, 
which  the  chilly  morning  rendered  necessary. 

Judge  Washington  called  Magdalene  to  him,  and  when 
he  had  held  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  face  awbilo, 
he  said,  with  an  expression,  not  entirely  of  approbation  : 
"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  your  grandfather  in  you,  my 
child." 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  Judge  Washington,  attended 
by  Adam  Hawk,  went  out  to  take  a  survey  of  his  planta- 
tion. Bruin  and  Joseph  left  the  house  together  to  attend 
to  the  transfer  of  baggage  from  the  packet  to  the  mansion- 
house,  which  was  now  open  and  undergoing  the  process  of 
being  aired,  cleaned,  etc.,  for  the  reception  of  the  family. 
During  their  absence,  Magdalene  took  Virginia,  at  he- 
request,  all  through  the  old  farm-house,  and  over  the 
garden. 

That  night  Judge  Washington's  family  were  re-estab- 
lished at  Prospect  Hall. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE     SISTERS    REUNITED. 

"  A  grief  without  a  pang — void,  dark,  and  drear 
A  stifled,  shadowy,  unimpassioned  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet — no  relief 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear." — S.  T.  Coleridge. 

NOT  quite  eleven  years  old,  yet  developed  as  only  neglect, 
suffering,  solitude,  and  thought,  varied  only  by  the  society 
and  conversation  of  the  old,  can  develope  a  child's  nature, 
was  Magdalene.  Her  sense  of  justice — that  stern  justice 
nataral  to  her  own  mind,  and  cultivated  to  the  utmost  by 
her  father — revolted  against  the  wrong  that  had  been  done 
her.  A  child  of  quicker  sensibilities,  a  child  like  Virginia, 
might  have  felt  the  injury  more  keenly  at  first,  but  would  also 
have  got  over  it  soon.  Not  so  Magdalene.  Very  slow 
was  she  to  receive  any  great  impression ;  but  once  made,  it 
was  indelible,  and  time  did  but  deepen  and  indurate  the 
lines.  Thus  that  night,  after  the  departure  of  their  guests, 
when  her  grandfather  returned  from  the  last  supervision  of 
the  fields,  she  had  scarcely  a  word  or  a  look  to  bestow  on 
him,  and  her  own  appearance  and  deportment  was  sorrowful 
as  grave.  After  supper,  when  they  were  gathered  around 
the  fire,  Adam  Hawk  in  his  big  chair,  with  his  candle-stand 
and  Bible  by  his  side,  Magdalene,  with  her  basket  of  seed- 
cotton  to  pick,  and  Goblin  making  acute  angles  of  his  legs 
and  arms  by  squatting  on  his  haunches,  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  and  his  chin  propped  upon  his  hands — Adam 
Hawk,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  Bible,  preparatory  to  open- 
ing it,  and  looking  over  his  spectacles,  said  : 


THE     SISTERS     REUNITED.  175 

"  Come,  hither,  child,  to  rae." 

Magdalene  dropped  her  bunch  of  cotton  into  the  basket, 
crossed  the  hearth,  and  stood  before  him  with  folded  hands 
and  downcast  eyes. 

"  Magdalene,"  said  Adam  Hawk,  "  I  have  seen  Mr  Her- 
vey  to-night;  I  met  him  on  his  way  to  the  mansion-house, 
whither  he  was  going  to  welcome  Judge  Washington  home. 
He  tells  me,  Magdalene,  that  you  were  really  not  at  St. 
Leonard's,  but  in  the  old  forest  yesterday  ;  so  that  Gulliver 
was  mistaken,  and  he  led  me  into  a  mistake.  I  am  sorry, 
Magdalene,  that  such  was  the  case." 

"  I,  too,  am  sorry,  very  sorry." 

"  I  am  glad,  however,  Magdalene,  that  yon  are  a  better 
girl  than  I  thought  you.  Are  you  not  glad  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  for  if  the  minister  hadn't  told  you,  you  never 
would  have  believed  me.  No,  sir ;  I  am  not  so  good  a 
girl  as  you  think  me.  I  never  shall  be  so  good  a  girl  again 
as  I  was  before  yesterday." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  thai,  mistress  ?" 

"  Nothing,  only  not  to  deceive  you,  for  I  will  neither 
speak  nor  act  a  lie." 

"  Then  if  you  deliberately  propose  to  be  wicked,  you 
know  the  consequences !" 

"I  do  not  propose  any  tning,  father  ;  but  I  can  not  help 
growing  wicked  now,  any  more  than  the  iron  on  the  anvil 
could  help  becoming  a  hatchet  blade,  when  it  was  heated 
and  hammered  into  that  shape  by  the  blacksmith." 

"  We'll  see,"  quoth  Adam  Hawk. 

"  Marster  Jesus !"  ejaculated  Gulliver 

Days  passed,  during  which  Magdalene  saw  no  more  of 

Jjie  family  at  Prospect  Hall,  excent  by  such   glimpses  as 

she  got  of  them  at  a  distance.     Still,  every  thing  about  the 

new  life  at   the   mansion-house   interested   her   extremely 

For  hours  she  would  sit  at  the  vine-shaded  window — the 


X      •. 

V  \ '   > 

176  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

same  window  through  which  her  poor  mother  had  gazed 
the  night  of  hes^death — and  watch  the£grand  company  that 
came  and  went  in  their  fine  carriages,  or  on  their  fine 
horses ;  she  would  notice  the  elegant  dresses  of  the  ladies, 
and  the  gay  apparel  of  their  servants ;  and  all  this  seemed 
very  magnificent  to  the  unaccustomed  eyes  of  the  simple 
child  She  would  see  the  handsome  family  carriage,  with 
its  splendid  pair  of  dappled  grays,  drawn  up  before  the 
door  of  the  mansion,  and  Virginia  come  out,  looking  ra- 
diant and  joyous  in  her  beautiful  and  costly  dress.  She 
would  see  the  obsequious  respect  paid  .the  beauty  and  the 
heiress  by  her  attendants,  and  she  would  feel  that  the  dis- 
tance which  divided  her  from  her  newly-found  foster-sister 
widened  every  day.  Yet  no  germ  of  envy  took  root  in  the 
child's  heart.  No  ;  Magdalene,  young  as  she  was,  had  lost 
her  peace,  but  it  was  from  another  cause.  She  had  lost 
her  confidence  in,  her  repose  in  her  grandfather,  and  she 
felt  that  she  would  never  find  it  again  until  she  had  some- 
how justified  him.  Could  her  sense  of  JUSTICE  have  been 
satisfied  at  any  expense,  at  her  own  expense,  even,  she  would 
have  been  comparatively  happy.  The  idea  weighed  heavily 
upon  her  spirits,  it  became  morbid,  it  might  have  ended 
in  a  monomania,  but  for  a  circumstance  that  saved  her. 

Bruin,  the  deformed,  was  a  close  and  deeply  interested 
observer  of  Magdalene.  With  his  profouncL  knowledge  of 
human  nature  in  general,  and  his  intuitive  insight  into  in- 
dividual character,  he  had  reaft* Magdalene's  heart^ctearly 
as  an  open  book  printed  in  familiar  characters,  and  under- 
stood it  better  than  she  did  herself.  Often  he  came  back 
and  forth  from  the  mansion  to  the  grange,  and  often  joined 
Magdalene  in  her  wanderings.  One  evening  the  dwarf  had 
overtaken  Magdalene  on  her  return  home  from  a  ramble 
in  the  old  forest.  He  joined  her,  and  as  they  descended 
'.he  hill  toward  the  hollow  of  the  grange,  he  pleaded 


THE     SISTERS     REUNITED.  177 

fatigue,  and  sat  down  under  a  tree,  drew  her  down  to  his 
side,  and  placing  his  hand  upon  the  top  of  her  head  in  his 
caressing,  mesmerizing  way,  and  looking  out  upon  the 
Plains,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  respectful  pity  : 

"  Poor  old  man  /" 

"  Who  ?"  asked  Magdalene,  in  a  soft  voice,  looking  up, 
for  her  sympathies  were  slightly  moved  by  his  tone  and 
manner. 

"Poor,  solitary  old  man!"  said  the  dwarf,  as  if  commun- 
ing with  himself. 

"  Who  ?"  again  asked  Magdalene,  with  more  interest. 

"  Adam,  child,  poor  old  Adam  Hawk  !  who  has  outlived 
brethren  and  sisters,  wife  and  child,  and  is  now  toiling  on 
in  his  lonely,  loveless,  hopeless  old  age,  with  nothing  but 
the  grave  before  him.  Look,  Magdalene,  when  he  comes 
from  his  work,  look  at  his  stooping  form,  his  gray  hair,  and 
his  worn  face  !"  said  Bruin,  pointing  him  out  on  the  Plains, 
while  he  gazed  with  all  the  benevolence  of  his  soul  into 
Magdalene's  eyes. 

H£  continued  : 

"  See  how  weary  and  sad  he  is — how  much  good  a  word 
of  affection — a  little  act  of  attention  from  one  he  loved — 
would  do  him  now.  It  would  refresh  him  more  than  his 
supper,  and  rest  him  more  than  his  arm-chair.  Poor  old 
man  !  he,  hast  iHJ^long  to  live.  To  think,  Magdalene,  that 
in  all  probability  by  the  time  that  you  grow  up  to  be  a 
vigorous  young  woman,  he  will  be  moldering  in  his  grave, 
and  the  opportunity  of  doing  him  good  passed  away  from 
yon  forever." 

Magdalene's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  looked  on  her 
^M^idfather  and  listened  to  the  dwarf.  He  continued  to 
gaze  into  her  eyes  after  he  had  ceased  to  speak,  and  then 
*he  said  :  .^ 

"  Oh,  Bruin,  you   are  very,  very  wise  and   good.     Take 


178  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

this  sense  of  wrong  inflicted  out  of  my  heart,  that  I  may  be 
able  to  love  my  grandfather  again,  and  talk  to  him  as  before." 

"I  cannot  do  it,  my  child ;  only  you  can  do  it." 

"  How  ?  how  ?     I  wish  I  conld — I  wish  I  could  !" 

"  Wait  on  him  as  before,  talk  to  him  as  before,  and  the 
sense  of  injury  will  depart  of  itself." 

"  But  that  would  be  deceitful." 

"  No,  my  child,  it  will  not  be  deceitful  unless  you  do  it 
to  deceive,  which  you  do  not.  My  child,  we  must  do  our 
plain,  literal  duty,  without  regard  to  our  feelings,  and  then 
our  feelings  will  go  after  it.  When  we  know  it  to  be  our 
duty  to  forgive,  and  wish  to  forgive,  yet  cannot  bring  our 
hearts  to  it,  let  us  resolutely  do  violence  to  our  wrathful 
feelings,  and  return  good  for  evil,  and  we  shall  experience 
to  our  surprise  that  we  are  suddenly  enabled  to  forgive 
without  an  effort.  My  child,  it  is  a  trait  of  human  nature 
to  love  those  to  whom  we  do  good,  and  to  hate  those  to 
whom  we  do  ill ;  therefore,  if  you  wish  to  love  any  one, 
begin  by  doing  them  good,  and  you  will  love  them  for  the 
very  good  you  have  done  them  ;  and  if  you  wish  to  avoid 
hating  any  one,  do  them  no  evil,  lest  you  hate  them  for  the 
very  evil  you  have  done  them.  But,  Magdalene,  this  does 
not  throughout  apply  to  your  grandfather.  Forgiveness  is 
an  inadmissible  word  between  you  and  him.  You  owe  him 
love,  veneration,  service;  the  first  he  may  have  lost,  the 
last,  my  child,  you  must  give  him." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  say,"  said  the  child  ;  and  pressing  the 
rough  hand  of  the  dwarf  against  her  bosom,  she  rose  up 
and  left  him,  and  walked  rapidly  on  after  her  grandfather 
until  she  had  overtaken  him.  "  Give  me  the  dinner-basket, 
grandfather,  you  are  tired,  and  I  am  quite  fresh,  so  let  ow 
carry  it,"  said  she,  coming  up  to  his  side.  v  Mj^- 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  in  stern  surprise,  and  then 
the  harshness  of  his  countenance  softened  as  he  said. 


THE     SISTERS     REUNITED.  179 

"  No,  no,  it  is  too  heavy  for  your  young  arms." 

"Heavy,  grandfather!  Let  me  try  it.  See  here,"  said 
she,  lightly  swinging  the  basket  from  one  hand  to  the  other 
with  the  utmost  ease,  and  finally  hanging  it  OH  her  arm. 

"God  bless  and  redeem  thee,  Magdalene,"  said  Adam 
Hawk. 

They  went  home  together,  and  that  evening  and  from 
that  time  the  child  exerted  herself  to  please  her  grand- 
father; but,  reader,  the  sense  of  injury  was  only  numbed,  it 
was  not  destroyed.  In  the  evening,  when  he  would  be  re- 
turning home  weary  and  bowed,  wearing  the  look  of  old 
age,  then,  indeed,  her  heart  would  yearn  toward  him  ;  but 
in  the  morning,  when  he  would  go  forth  to  the  fields  vigor- 
ous and  erect,  the  child  would  feel  the  sense  of  wrong  done 
her  returning  again  ;  and  moody  and  musing  she  would 
wander  forth  upon  the  sea-shore,  or  up  into  the  forest.  la 
one  of  these  rambles  through  the  woods  at  the  back  of  the 
mansion-house  she  met  Virginia. 


It  was  a  glorious  morning  in  early  spring.  The  a?«*  was 
soft  and  bright,  and  musical  with  the  joyous  songs  of  birds, 
the  mellow  lowing  of  cattle,  the  shrill  crowing  and  cackling 
of  cocks  and  hens,  and  all  the  jubilant  reveille  of  aroused 
and  exultant  nature.  And  our  Magdalene  wandered  forth, 
penetrated  by  the  divine  beauty  of  nature,  before  which  her 
obscure  moral  pain  had  withdrawn  itself  like  an  evil  thing 
into  the  deepest  abysses  of  her  soul. 

She  wandered  up  the  Old  Turnpike  Road,  watching,  not 
the  intense  blue  sky,  the  fleecy,  silvery  clouds,  the  splendid 
sunlight  shimmering  on  the  brilliant  green  leaves;  not  these 
exclusively,  but — the  setting  hen  to  her  stolen  nest ;  the 
bantam  hen,  that  with  seeming  careless  saunter,  picking 
here  and  there,  and  ruffling  her  feathers,  with  the  oblique 
eve  watched  her  watcher  with  equal  vigilance. 


180  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

She  approached  the  small  open  glade  of  the  Old  Turn- 
pike Road,  the  glade  which  now  in  the  dense  dark  forest 
gleamed  like  a  sunburst  from  the  clouds  ;  and  in  its  strong- 
est light  was  pictured  a  beautiful  group — two  equestrian 
figures,  a  youth  and  a  child,  each  seated  upon  an  elegant 
white  Arabian  ;  the  youth  wearing  a  suit  of  invisible  green, 
the  child  a  riding-dress  of  mazarine  blue.  On  the  left, 
with  his  hand  upon  the  mane  of  the  child's  steed,  stood 
Bruin  the  Dwarf;  and  on  the  right,  leaping  up  the  side  of 
the  youth's  horse,  was  a  splendid  jet-black  Newfoundland 
dog. 

On  approaching  this  group,  Magdalene's  fugitive  hen 
ran  scampering  off  into  the  woods,  and  was  lost  to  sight ; 
while  the  girl  herself  paused,  undecided  between  affection, 
pride,  and  shyness,  whether  to  meet  Virginia  or  retreat. 

Virginia  settled  the  matter  at  once,  by,  as  soon  as  she 
saw  Magdalene,  bounding  to  her  side,  followed  at  more 
leisure  by  Josey.  "I  am  so  very  glad  to  see  you,  Magda- 
lene ;  so  very  glad  to  see  you  !"  said  Ginnie,  as  she  bent 
from  her  saddle  to  kiss  her  "sister;"  while  Joseph,  dis- 
mounting, led  his  horse  to  her  side,  and  lifting  Magdalene, 
seated  her  as  well  as  he  could  in  his  own  place,  saying,  "  I 
can  walk  on  with  Bruin  ;  and  Magdalene,  if  you  are  like 
Virginia,  you  can  ride  any  sort  of  saddle,  or  even  a  bare- 
backed horse." 

"Yes,  I  can,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  take  your  seat." 

"  Never  think  of  that :  I  prefer  to  walk  with  Bruin  here  : 
and  Ginnie,  this  arrangement  pleases  you,  does  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  oh  yes,  thank  you,  dear  Josey ;  only  walk  by  the 
side  of  Magdalene,  her  seat  is  not  safe." 

When  they  were  thus  arranged — Bruin  walking  by  the 
side  of  Virginia's  horse,  and  Joseph  by  that  of  Magdalene 
— Virginia  said  : 

"And  now,  dear  Magdalene,  I  have  something  to  say  to 


THE     SISTERS     REUNITED.  181 

you  I  have  not  been  at  the  Hall  a  week  without  wanting 
to  see  you  ;  but  I  have  never  been  a  strong  child,  and  the 
weather  has  been  soft  and  moist  and  enervating,  and  the 
hollow  is  very  damp  ;  so  father  would  not  let  me  go,  but 
said  that  as  soon  as  Miss  Hervey  arrives,  yon  should  be 
t«nt  for  to  come  and  live  with  me,  and  be  my  sister,  as 
mother  wished.  Now  Miss  Hervey  is  corning  to-day;  and 
father  is  gone  down  to  the  fields  to  ask  Mr.  Hawk  to  con- 
sent to  let  you  come  to  the  Hall  and  share  ray  studies. 
Now  as  Mr.  Hervey  approves  of  the  plan  highly,  and  says 
that  we  really  need  each  other — that  we  will  be  correctives 
of  each  other,  I  suppose  there  will  be  not  the  least  difficultv. 
Now,  Magdalene,  as  you  appeared  to  be  only  taking  a 
woodland  ramble,  you  might  as  well  return  with  us  to  the 
Hall,  and  wait  the  event  there." 

"  I  was  only  watching  the  sitting-hen  to  her  nest,"  re- 
plied Magdalene. 

"And  she,  with  the  cunning  of  her  kind  upon  such  oc- 
casions, has  eluded  or  escaped  you  I  do  not  see  her  ;  so 
come." 

And  so  Virginia  prevailed  with  Magdalene,  and  they  re- 
turned together  to  the  mansion-house. 

Ginnie  hnrried  her  off  to  her  own  chamber — her  late 
mother's  chamber  with  the  "  dawn  window,"  which  re- 
mained with  the  same  blue  damask  curtains,  and  the  same 
furniture  generally  ;  and  after  showing  her  every  thing 
that  was  interesting  in  it,  opened  the  door  leading  into 
what  had  been  the  nursery,  and  told  Magdalene  that  that 
should  henceforth  be  her  room,  as  it  connected  with  her 
own.  Then  she  showed  her  across  the  broad  middle  pus- 
sage  into  two  corresponding  rooms  ;  the  front  one  of 
which  was  to  be  the  school-room,  and  the  back  one  Miss 

I'tM'Vc..-'.;   c!l;llllh"r. 
11 


Ic2  THE     TWO     SISTEKS. 

By  the  time  Ginnie  had  gone  through  these,  the  dinner- 
bell  rang,  and  they  went  down  into  the  dining-room  to  find 
there  Judge  Washington  returned,  in  the  company  of  Adam 
Hawk.  The  latter  seemed  surprised  to  find  his  grandchild 
there,  until  Ginnie,  quickly  reading  his  thoughts,  said — 

"  /brought  her !" 

Then  he  took  Magdalene  by  the  hand,  and  said — "  My 
child,  through  the  kindness  of  Judge  Washington,  you  are 
to  reside  here  as  a  companion  to  Miss  Washington,  shar- 
ing her  studies.  Go  and  thank  your  benefactor. " 

But  Magdalene  looked  as  if  she  would  consider  the  sub- 
ject first. 

And  the  Judge  smiling  at  Magdalene's  hesitation,  and 
Adam  Hawk's  dark  frown,  said,  "  Leave  her  to  her  honesty, 
Hawk !" 

After  dinner,  Adam  Hawk  with  a  parting  admonition  to 
his  granddaughter,  went  away.  In  the  afternoon  Magda- 
lene's slender  wardrobe  and  other  little  effects,  were  sent  up 
from  the  grange,  and  placed  in  the  room  appropriated  to 
her  use. 

Late  iu  the  evening,  Miss  Hervey,  in  charge  of  her 
father,  arrived. 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE     YOUNCJ     GOVERNESS. 

"  Her  eyes  were  shadowy — full  of  thought  and  prayer—- 
And with  long  lashes  o'er  a  white-rose  cheek, 
Drooping  in  gloom — aud,  oh  !  the  brow  above  : 
So  pale  and  pure  ;  so  formed  for  holy  love 
To  gaze  upon  iu  silence — but,  she  felt 
That  love  was  not  for  her,  though  hearts  would  melt 
Where'er  she  moved,  and  reverence,  mutely  given, 
Went  with  her  ;  and  low  prayers,  that  called  on  Heaven." 

Mrs.  Hemanf. 

THE  family  were  assembled  in  the  wainscoted  parlor. 
The  crimson  curtains  were  let  down.  The  crimson  sofa 
drawn  up  on  the  left  side  ;  the  crimson  rocking-chair  on  the 
right,  and  the  black-walnut  reading-table  in  front  of  the 
bright  fire  that  the  cool  evening  made  agreeable.  Those 
were  not  the  days  of  solar  lamps,  but  a  statuette  of  Faith, 
holding  a  light  above  her  head,  stood  upon  the  table, 
illuminating  the  scene.  Judge  Washington  sat  in  the 
easy-chair  on  the  right,  reading  his  paper,  Joseph  with 
Magdalene  and  Virginia;  occupied  the  sofa  on  the  left,  and 
were  engaged  in  examining  a  book  of  prints.  They  were 
waiting  tea  for  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Hervey. 

At  the  time  of  our  story  the  schools  and  colleges  of  New 
England  had  not,  from  among  the  number  of  their  pupils, 
flooded  the  whole  South  with  a  surfeit  of  tutors  and 
governesses — then  a  tutor  was  a  rare,  and  a  governess  an 
unheard-of  thing,  in  the  Southern  States.  Therefore  Judge 
Washington,  unwilling  to  send  his  granddaughter  from 
home,  had  decided  to  entrust  her  to  the  care  of  Helen 

(183) 


184  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Hervey,  and  prevailed  on  the  clergyman  for  that  purpose, 
to  part  for  a  season  with  his  youthful  but  accomplished 
daughter. 

The  family  had  not  waited  long,  before  the  loud  knocking 
at  the  hall  door  announced  the  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Miss 
Hervey,  who  were  immediately  ushered  in. 

Mr.  Hervey  was  a  gentleman  of  middle  age,  medium 
stature,  dark  complexion,  and  ardent  and  intellectual  cast 
of  countenance. 

His  daughter,  Helen  Hervey,  was  about  sixteen  years  of 
age,  of  small  but  well-proportioned  figure,  of  sallow  com- 
plexion and  hollow  features,  and  might  have  been  called 
plain,  but  for  the  large,  black,  brooding  eyes — with  their 
black  eyelashes  and  eyebrows,  and  the  clustering  black  hair, 
shading  her  dark,  spiritual  countenance,  and  giving  it  a 
singular  charm,  that  might  outrival  even  the  brilliant  glow 
of  Magdalene's  complexion,  or  the  radiant  bloom  of 
Virginia's.  Helen  wore  a  closely-fitting,  dark-green  dress, 
which  threw  out  into  greater  relief  the  singular  style  of  her 
features  and  complexion. 

The  Judge  arose  to  receive  his  guests,  and  with  statelv 
courtesy  seated  Miss  Hervey  in  the  easy-chair,  before  pre- 
senting his  daughter  and  her  young  companion  to  her 
notice.  When  the  introductions  were  over,  supper  was 
announced  ;  and  after  supper  Mr.  Hervey  departed,  and 
Miss  Hervey  was  shown  to  the  departments  she  was  to 
occupy  as  school-room  and  chamber. 

The  grave,  fervent,  and  beautiful  countenance — the  gentle 
voice,  and  easy  manners  of  Helen  Hervey,  had  made  a 
very  favorable  impression  upon  the  mind  of  Magdalene,  and 
had  won,  at  once,  the  heart  of  the  ardent  and  susceptible 
Virginia. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  Judge  Washington 
introduced  Helen  into  her  school-room,  and  presenting  her 


THE     YOUNG     GOVERNESS.  185 

pupils  to  her,  left  them  with  her,  while  he  and  Joseph  vent 
out  for  the  day. 

Helen  had  evidently  been  well  prepared  in  all  respects 
by  her  father  for  the  onerous  duties  laid  upon  her  youth. 
Her  first  object  was  to  gain  the  confidence  and  affection 
of  her  pupils,  and  then  to  study  their  characters  with  a  view 
to  their  improvement.  Never  had  a  young  teacher  *\vo 
pupils  of  such  totally  opposite  personal  appearance, 
characters,  and  circumstances,  as  Helen  had  in  Magdalene 
and  Virginia.  Virginia,  with  her  dazzling  fairness,  her 
sparkling  blue  eyes,  her  splendid  red  hair,  her  quick  move- 
ments, and  her  ardent,  impulsive  feeling — Magdalene  with 
her  rich  and  glowing  crimson  cheeks  and  lips,  her  jet  black 
hair,  and  eyes,  and  eyebrows,  her  languid  motions  and  her 
thoughtful  air.  Virginia,  with  her  good  and  bad — her 
large  veneration  and  benevolence  —  her  affection,  her 
docility,  her  patience,  and  above  all,  her  trust  and  her  hu- 
mility on  the  one  hand,  and  her  hasty  violence  of  temper, 
and  her  timidity  (both  these  faults  perhaps  arising  from 
nervous  irritability)  on  the  other.  Magdalene,  with  her 
truth,  justice,  courage,  and  self-command  on  the  one  side  ; 
and  her  pride,  ambition,  and  stubbornness  on  the  other. 
Virginia,  the  heiress  of  the  two  largest  estates  in  the 
county  ;  Magdalene,  the  penniless  dependent  on  her  father's 
bounty.  Yet  the  principal  virtue  of  Virginia  was  her 
humility,  and  her  principal  failing,  a  want  of  fortitude  and 
self-command ;  while  the  grand  fault  of  Magdalene  was 
inordinate  pride,  and  her  great  virtue,  invincible  courage 
and  self-control. 

But  a  trifling  incident  that  occurred  in  the  course  of  the 
summer,  will  serve  fully  to  illustrate  the  characters  of  the 
children.  It  was  a  very  warm  evening,  and  Helen  Hervey 
had  taken  her  pupils  out  into  the  shaded  arbor.  There 
already  sat  Judge  Washington — smoking — don't  be  shocked 


THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

— his  pipe  of  tobacco.  And  there  sat  Joseph,  with  a  vol- 
ume of  Mosheira  in  his  hand.  Ginnie  sat  down,  but  instead 
of  studying  the  French  grammar  she  held  in  her  hand,  she 
let  it  fall,  and  running  into  the  house,  returned  with  a  bas- 
ket filled  with  cotton-wool,  on  which  reposed  two  little 
young  Guinea  pigs,  her  new  pets — presents  from  Midship- 
man Broke  Shields,  who  had  brought  them  from  the  Coast 
of  Africa  for  her.  Every  one  knows  the  extreme  tenderness 
and  delicacy,  as  well  as  the  irascibility  of  these  pretty  little 
creatures.  Ginnie,  in  her  willful  manner,  took  one  of  them 
upon  her  lap,  and  began  to  play  with  and  teaze  it.  The 
little  creature  at  first  only  squealed  and  struggled,  but  Ginnie 
laughed  and  teazed  it  the  more.  Miss  Hervey  spoke  to  her, 
gently  requesting  her  to  desist;  but  Ginnie  replied  by  giving 
her  pet  another  squeeze  and  pinch.  The  little  animal,  iu 
self-defense,  suddenly  turned,  and  struck  its  little  sharp 
teeth  into  Ginnie's  soft  arm,  inflicting  a  slight  wound. 
Enraged  with  pain,  Ginnie's  face  flushed  up — she  screamed, 
shook  the  little  creature  violently,  and  threw  it  heavily  upon 
the  ground.  The  little  thing  convulsed,  rolled  over,  stiff- 
ened, and  lay  perfeclly  still,  and  in  this  time  Ginnie  had 
come  to  her  senses,  and  Judge  Washington,  Miss  Hervey, 
Joseph,  and  Magdalene  had  gathered  around  her,  drawn  by 
the  scream.  Virginia  now  stood  with  clasped  hands  and 
pale  face,  contemplating  her  work  of  destruction,  with  deep 
contrition. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh,  oh  !  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  wringing  her 
hands. 

"  How  did  this  happen,  Virginia  ?"  inquired  Miss  Her- 
vey. 

•'  Oh,  I  was  teazing  him,  you  know,  and  he  bit  me,  and  I 
flew  in  a  passion  and  threw  him  down  and  killed  him!  Oh, 
I  am  so  sorry  !  Oh,  I  would  give  all  the  pretty  things  I 
have  in  the  world  to  bring  him  to  life  again  1" 


THE     YOUNG     GOVERNESS.  187 

"  So  you  killed  him,  Virginia  ?"  said  Judge  Washington, 
very  gravely.  Then  turning  to  the  others,  he  said, 

"  Magdalene,  ray  love,  tell  this  little  girl  what  you  think 
of  this  act  of  vengeance  and  destruction  of  hers — coine, 
speak  out  your  thought  like  a  brave  girl  as  you  are." 

"  I  think  that  it  is  tyrannical,  cowardly,  mean,  to  take 
vengeance  on  any  thing  weaker  than  ourselves,"  replied 
Magdalene,  looking  straight  in  Virginia's  face. 

"  Oh,  I  know  it,  Lena,  I  know  it,"  said  the  penitent  and 
humbled  child. 

"  Helen  Hervey,  my  dear,  give  this  little  girl  your  thought 
upon  the  subject." 

"I  think  that  Virginia  is  very  sorry  that  she  has  killed 
the  little  thing,  when  she  reflects  that  though  a  little  girl 
may  take  a  life,  yet  that  life,  once  taken,  all  the  power  of 
earth  could  not  restore — and  I  think  that  Virginia  will 
never  give  way  to  such  fatal  violence  of  temper  again,"  said 
Helen  Hervey,  gently. 

"Never  again!  oh,  if  the  Lord  will  please  to  help  me, 
never  again,"  said  Ginnie,  earnestly. 

"  Where  is  Joseph — I  must  have  his  opinion  !  Yes,  my 
little  girl,  painful  as  it  may  be  to  you,  you  must  hear  the 
public  sentiment  upon  these  tempers.  Where  is  Joseph  ?" 
asked  Judge  Washington. 

But  Joseph  had  taken  the  Guinea  pig  out  some  minutes 
before,  in  order  to  remove  the  painful  object  from  the  poor 
little  penitent's  sight,  and  he  had  not  yet  returned.  But 
now  he  comes, — and  bringing  back  the  pet  alive  and  kick- 
ing. Yes,  he  brought  it  back  into  the  circle,  and  standing 
before  the  surprised  and  overjoyed  child,  he  laid  the  tiny 
animal  on  the  palm  of  one  hand,  while  he  stroked  down  its 
soft,  spotted  back  with  the  other,  and  said, 

"You  see  he  was  not  dead,  Virginia.  He  was  only 
thro-vn  into  a  fit ;"  and  smilingly  he  laid  it  in  the  basket  of 


188  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

cotton-wool  by  the  side  of  its  sleeping  sister.  And  Vir- 
ginia, she  looked  around  upon  the  circle  for  an  instant,  and 
then  impetuously  casting  herself  upon  Josey's  bosom,  clasp- 
ing her  arms  tightly  around  his  neck,  and  pressing  her  head 
closely  against  his  breast,  she  sobbed, 

"  Oh,  my  dear  brother  ! — my  dear,  dear  brother !  My 
dear  brother  Josey  !  Other  people  scold  and  lecture  me, 
and  it  is  very  proper,  too  ;  but  you  save,  and  restore,  and 
turn  all  my  wrongs  into  rights,  without  a  word  of  reproach. 
Oh,  my  dear  brother  Josey,  what  should  I  do  without  you, 
you  are  so  good,  so  good  1" 

And  this  she  said  a  score  of  times,  while  hugging  Joseph 
tightly  around  the  neck,  and  pressing  her  head  upon  his 
bosom,  until  Joseph  gently  disengaged  her  arms,  put  her 
from  him,  and,  turning,  dashed  the  quick  tears  from  his  own 
eyes,  and  hurried  from  the  arbor. 

To  improve  the  event  of  the  evening,  Judge  Washington 
took  Virginia  by  the  hand  and  led  her  into  the  library, 
where  he  set  before  her  the  fatal  evils  of  anger,  in  the  most 
impressive  manner,  making  her  to  know  that  the  same  pas- 
sion that  had  raised  her  little  hand  against  the  feeble  life  of 
her  pet,  in  its  stronger  development  had  armed  Cain  against 
his  brother  Abel's  life.  Finally,  he  prayed  with  her  before 
leaving  the  library.  When  they  entered  the  wainscoted 
parlor,  Ginirie  went  up  to  Joseph,  and  laying  her  two  little 
hands  softly  upon  his  arm,  leaned  her  head  against  him  for 
an  instant.  It  was  her  manner  of  expressing  gratitude, 
confidence,  and  dependence.  He  bowed  his  face  over  her 
bright  hair  a  moment,  and  then  leaving  her,  took  up  a  book, 
jitid  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  table  to  read. 


Years  passed  away.  By  the  persevering  and  affectionate 
care  of  Judge  Washington  and  Helen  Hervey,  Joseph,  and 
ever:  poor,  deformed  Bruin,  the  faults  of  Virginia's  temper 


THK     YOUNG     G  O  V  E  II  X  E  S  S  .  189 

and  temperament  were  gradunlly  being  corrected.  They 
were  so  superficial,  and  outweighed  by  so  many  inherent 
virtues,  that  indeed  they  required  nothing  more  than  a 
loving  persistence  on  the  part  of  her  educators  to  eradicate 
them.  The  evil  of  Magdalene's  stern  character  lay  deeper, 
more  out  of  sight ;  nothing  occurred  to  call  it  forth,  there- 
fore it  was  unsuspected,  and  again,  therefore,  uncorrected  ; 
while  her  good  qualities,  as  calmness,  patience,  fortitude, 
courage,  were  very  apparent.  Do  yon  cavil  at  "  courage, 
fortitude,"  in  a  young  country  girl  in  domestic  life  ?  I  will 
reply  by  a  single  instance.  When  our  foster  sisters  were 
fourteen  years  of  age,  the  healthy  shores  of  the  Chesapeake 
were  visited  by  an  epidemic  and  malignant  fever,  which  laid 
waste  many  a  plantation.  Judge  Washington's  people  suf- 
fered extremely  from  illness,  and  that  there  were  no  deaths 
among  them,  was  mainly  attributable  to  the  intelligence, 
firmness,  and  patience  of  Magdalene,  who,  with  Virginia 
and  Miss  Hervey,  had  temporarily  abandoned  the  school- 
room, and  given  herself  up  to  the  care  of  the  sick.  Poor 
Ginnie,  the  gleam  of  a  lancet  would  make  her  flesh  creep, 
and  the  trickle  of  blood  would  turn  her  ill  to  faintness ;  yet, 
not  for  these  failings  of  the  flesh  would  Judge  Washington 
suffer  Virginia  to  abandon  her  duties — no  ;  for  he  decided 
to  use  this  very  opportunity,  and  these  very  means,  to  teach 
her  self-control  and  fortitude,  and  while  gently  encouraging 
her,  he  firmly  kept  her  to  her  task.  But  in  the  most  fright- 
ful aspects  of  the  fever,  when  Virginia  would  utterly  fail, 
and  even  Helen  Hervey  turn  sick  to  faintness,  Magdalene's 
firm  nerves  and  muscles  would  retain  their  immobility,  and 
her  ruby  cheeks  and  lips  their  glow,  and  her  soul  its  invin- 
cible courage. 

Virginia  admired  Magdalene  very  much.  "  Oh,  Magda- 
lene, how  I  wish  I  were  a  soldier  like  you  !  For  my  part, 
much  as  I  admire  the  chivalrous  Buckingham  and  prince 


190  TIIE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Charles,  I  sympathize  more  with  douce  King  James'  dread 
of  cold  steel  and  red  blood.  By  the  way  of  a  little  sun- 
beam, Magdalene,  when  these  dark  days  of  sickness  are 
quite  over — as  they  are  almost  over,  thank  Heaven  ! — shall 
we  not  have  a  nice  time  these  winter  evenings,  with  the 
History  of  the  Crusades  and  the  Waverley  novels  ?" 

The  dark  days  of  dire  illness  were  over — their  mission 
was  accomplished  to  one  strengthened  and  instructed  spirit 
at  least.  The  frost  of  Autumn  came  bringing  health,  and 
then  the  winter  evenings  came  with  their  fireside  delights. 

In  their  morning  studies,  their  afternoon  pastimes,  and 
their  evening  light  reading,  the  opposite  character  of  the 
foster  sisters  were  still  more  plainly  revealed.  Botany, 
geology,  the  beautiful  and  curious  things  of  the  earth, 
interested  Virginia.  Magdalene  took  no  sort  of  pleasure 
in  dissecting  a  flower,  or  classifying  a  stone  ;  nay,  she  even 
disliked  it.  Flowers  were  beautiful  things  in  form  and 
color,  and  stones  were  beautiful  also,  with  more  light  and 
shade,  and  acknowledging  this,  she  turned  from  them. 
Astronomy  was  her  passion.  In  contemplating  the  infinite 
majesty  of  the  heavens,  her  soul  was  raised  in  a  calm 
trance  of  ecstacy,  that  though  it  gave  no  outward  sign  of 
its  being,  reached  almost  the  confines  of  an  exalted  insanity. 

In  their  amusements,  Virginia  loved  dancing,  riding, 
foot-racing  over  the  plains,  battledoor  and  shuttlecock, 
singing  glees — every  thing,  in  short,  that  was  active,  sport- 
ive, vivacious. 

Magdalene,  delighted  in  the  reading  aloud,  or  declama- 
tion of  epic  poetry,  the  thunder  of  martial  music,  and  the 
study  of  historic  paintings  of  high  heroic  subjects.  Vir- 
ginia loved  the  green  grass,  flowers,  birds,  pets,  and  little 
children.  Magdalene  joyed  in  storms,  rocks,  the  sea-shore, 
the  starlight  nights.  Virginia  loved  all  the  people  imme- 
diately around  her.  Magdalene  adored  all  the  gloriou* 


THE     YOUNG     GOVERNESS.  191 

names  that  blazed  upon  the  pages  of  history,  and  all  the 
great  souls  of  the  living  age.  Their  evening  readings  in 
the  wainscoted  parlor  were  very  pleasant  things.  Judge 
Washington  and  Joseph  were  alrernate  readers,  until  Mag- 
dalene, by  especial  vocation,  took  it  herself.  In  their 
reading  and  discussion  of  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and  Scott, 
Magdalene  would  be  silent  after  reading,  until  called  upon 
to  express  herself,  and  then  would  startle  the  little  circle  by 
such  high-treason  as  this  : — That  Adam,  Eve,  and  the 
Archangels,  were  well  enough  she  supposed  ;  that  if  they 
were  extraordinary,  she  herself  had  not  the  genius  to  appre- 
ciate them  ;  but  that  that  which  attracted  her  whole  soul  with 
mighty  power,  was  his  Satan.  This  would  greatly  shock 
Virginia,  to  whom  Eve  appeared  the  very  model,  the  very 
ideal  of  womanly  perfection.  In  reading  Ivanhoe,  in  the 
same  manner,  when  called  upon,  not  before,  Magdalene 
avowed  her  decided  preference  for  Rebecca  and  Brian  de 
Bois  Guilbert,  wishing  that  they  had  married  and  revolu- 
tionized some  kingdom,  as  he  dreamed.  In  Shakspeare, 
Virginia  had  taken  the  character  of  Desderaona  and  Cor- 
delia, and  enthroned  them  in  her  mind  on  each  side  of  Mil- 
ton's Eve.  Magdalene  could  neither  understand  nor  feel 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  those  creations,  but  rendered  hom- 
age to  the  demoniac  power  of  Richard  III.,  and  of  Lady 
Macbeth.  When  questioned  about  the  reasou  of  these 
tastes,  she  would  reply  : 

"  I  do  not  know — it  is  ray  nature,  I  suppose — but  I  feel 
my  own  affinity  to  the  STRONG,  and  I  admire  strength,  evca 
wicked,  more  than  the  softness  and  delicacy  that  so  resem- 
bles weakness  !" 

Thus  the  sisters  did  not  sympathize  entirely.  Magdalene 
needed  no  sympathy — she  could  enjoy  her  stern  tastes  in 
solitude. 

But  Virginia  needed  companionship  in  all  things— and 


192  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

one  day  she  said,  sorrowfully,  "Ah,   Lena  I    you  hate  all 
the  beautiful  things  that  I  love  1" 

"Virginia-!"  replied  Magdalene,  who  chanced  then  to  be 
in  one  of  her  sublime  moods :  "  Virginia,  if  I  trample 
flowers  under  foot,  it  is  not  because  I  hate  them — but  be- 
cause I  see  not  where  I  tread — my  eyes  are  caught  up  by 
the  stars — or !  if  you  will  rather  have  it  so,  by  the  tem- 
pestuous skies,  the  terrific  beauty  of  the  thumder  and  light- 


CHAPTER    XI. 

MOTHER. 

"  There's  not  a  lovely  transient  thing 
Bat  brings  thee  to  oar  mind  t 
The  rainbow  or  the  fragile  flower, 
Sweet  summer's  fading  joys, 
The  waning  moon,  the  dying  day 
The  passing  glories  of  the  clouds, 
The  leaf  that  brightens  as  it  falls, 
The  wild  tones  of  the  .flSolian  harp, 
All  tell  some  touching  tale  of  thee  : 
There's  not  a  tender,  loving  thing, 
But  brings  thee  to  our  mind  !" — Mrs.  fbllen. 

As  our  young  foster  sisters  approached  womanhood 
they  became  .nore  serious  and  earnest,  though  from  par- 
tially different  causes.  With  Virginia  this  period  of  life 
was  marked  by  the  deepening  and  intensifying  of  all  her 
social  affections — her  profound  veneration  of  her  only  par- 
en;,  her  love  for  her  foster  sister,  and  lastly  both  veneration 
and  love  for  her  adopted  brother — and  by  the  arising  of  fer- 
vent religious  aspirations. 

To  Magdalene  this  era  brought  no  enlargement  of  the 


MOTHER.  193 

affections,  social,  or  religious ;  but  gave  a  great  impetus 
and  force  to  thought.  Further  than  ever  her  mind  pro- 
jected itself  into  the  past  and  the  future,  deeper  thau  ever 
it  dived  beneath  the  surface  of  the  present.  Among  my- 
riads of  thoughts,  feelings,  hopes,  fears,  anxieties,  ambi- 
tions known  only  to  her  own  soul,  the  predominant  idea 
was — her  mother.  Virginia  talked  a  great  deal  about  her 
mother,  talked  of  her  mother's  whole  life  with  the  fami- 
liarity of  a  cotemporary — and  it  was  therefore  evident  that 
she  had  received  very  minute  information  from  those  around 
her — but  Magdalene  never  heard  of  her  mother.  Never — 
with  the  single  exception  we  have  recorded — had  the  young 
girl  made  any  inquiry  of  her.  Something — perhaps  the 
tacit  influence  of  the  wills  of  those  around  her — had  re- 
pressed the  questions  she  would  have  liked  to  ask.  And, 
there  was  this  trait  of  Magdalene's  character — when  once 
silenced  upon  any  subject,  it  was  her  peculiarity  to  continue 
silent  so  far  as  that  subject  was  concerned,  and  when  once 
inquiring  upon  a  topic  to  continue  to  investigate  until  she 
should  be  satisfied.  The  reader  must  have  observed  it 
before — it  was  what  phrenologists  call  concentrativeness, 
continuity.  So,  Magdalene  once  interested  in  her  moth- 
er's history,  never  lost  a  tithe  of  that  interest,  and  once 
effectually  silenced,  continued  so  for  years.  She  began  to 
wonder  and  to  speculate  why  it  was  that  she  was  called  by 
her  mother's  maiden  name.  This  was  a  question  full  of 
bitterest  sorrow  to  her.  It  wounded  her  filial-  love,  it 
wounded  her  pride  to  the  quick.  Was  she  really  that 
which  sometimes  some  malignant  negro  in  insolence  had 
called  her  in  her  childhood  ?  She  shuddered  and  would 
rather  have  died  in  infancy.  She  could  scarcely  forbear 
reproaching  her  parents  in  their  graves.  Her  parents — 
who  was  the  other  one  ?  She  had  not  th*1  remotest  idea. 
One  day  she  inquired  of  Helen  Hervey, 


194  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Helen,  why  is  it  that  I  am  called  by  my  mothers  name  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  my  love,"  replied  Helen. 

"  Who  was  my  father,  Helen  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  my  love." 

44  One  question  more,  Helen.  Oh,  Helen,  reply  to  that 
question,  if  you  can  !"  and  then  with  an  unfaltering  voice 
and  an  unfading  cheek  that  revealed  nothing  of  the  trouble 
of  the  girl's  heart,  she  inquired,  "  Were  my  parents  mar- 
ried ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Magdalene,"  said  Helen  Hervey  ;  and 
drawing  her  pupil  to  her  bosom,  she  kissed  her  affection- 
ately, as  the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

Magdalene  shed  no  tear.     Then  Helen  said  : 

"Magdalene,  my  dear  girl,  do  not  mention  this  subject 
again  to  any  one,  will  you  ?" 

"  I  cannot  promise  that,"  said  Magdalene,  sadly. 

11  At  least  do  not  mention  it  to  Virginia." 

"  Certainly,  certainly  not.  I  know  that  that  which  con- 
sumes the  very  heart  of  Magdalene  Hawk  must  not  reach 
the  ear  of  Miss  Washington,  even  in  the  echo  of  the  faint- 
est whisper." 

Magdalene  soon  after  withdrew  quietly  from  the  room, 
and  too  troubled  for  society  or  conversation,  left  the  house 
by  the  back-way  for  a  ramble  up  the  Old  Turnpike  Road. 
She  had  not  gone  far  before  she  came  upon  the  dwarf,  sit- 
ting under  the  spreading  branches  of  a  large  walnut-tree, 
and  reading  with  profound  attention  a  folio  volume  that 
lay  upon  his  knee.  Magdalene  stopped,  and  the  half- 
formed  purpose  of  speaking  to  him  of  her  parentage  was 
i'lstantly  completed. 

"Bruin,  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you  this  evening,"  she 
said. 

He  looked  up,  closed  his  book,  and  motioned  her  to  sit 
by  his  side. 


MOTHER.  195 

"  If  I  disturb  your  studies,  Bruin,  I  know  that  you  will 
have  the  candor  to  say  so." 

"Certainly.  You  do  not.  It  is  getting  too  late  in  the 
evening  to  read.  Besides,  I  wished  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Talk  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  to  talk  to  you  of  the  subject  that  liea 
nearest  your  heart.  Magdalene,  no  one  watches  you  with 
so  much  interest,  or  reads  you  with  so  much  clearness,  or 
kn-owsyou  with  so  much  certainty  as  myself;  and  no  one  loves 
you  better,  for  I  knew  and  loved  your  mother,  Magdalene." 

"You  knew  my  mother  ?" 

"And  loved  her,  Magdalene,  more  than  life." 

"And  my  mother — she  deserved  that  love !  I  see  by 
your  face  that  she  did." 

"  She  merited  the  love,  the  veneration,  the  worship  that 
I  gave  her,  Magdalene." 

"  Heaven  bless  you  for  saying  that." 

"  You  have  heard  Mary  Washington's  name  lauded 
almost  to  canonization  ?" 

"Yes." 

"All  that  Mary  Washington  was  she  owed  to  the  teach 
ing  of  your  sainted  grandmother,  and  the  constant  associa 
tion  and  example  of  your  angel  mother." 

"  Heaven  bless  you  for  saying  that." 

"  I  know  it  better  than  any  one  else,  for  I  was  with 
them  all  the  time.  Marv  was  by  nature  just  such  a  child 
as  Virginia  now  is  ;  but,  through  the  blessing  of  God  upon 
the  influences  I  have  named,  she  became  the  young  saint 
whose  image  is  now  enshrined  in  every  heart  almost  as  an 
object  of  worship." 

"  Heaven  bless  yon  for  those  words,"  again  said  Magda- 
lene;  and  this,  fervently,  earnestly,  and  yet  half  uncon- 
sciously, she  repeated  at  every  pause,  as  though  her  heart 
kept  repeating  it  without  her  knowledge. 


196  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Well  Magdalene,  at  that  time  Prospect  Hall  was  not 
finished.  The  Judge  and  his  son,  what  time  they  staid  at 
home,  had  rooms  at  the  grange,  his  birth-place,  you  know, 
but  into  which  he  had  put  your  father.  The  Judge  then. 
Magdalene,  very  soon  became  attached  to  Mary  Carey  ;  and 
while  she  was  yet  a  little  girl,  before  she  had  gone  at  at  I 
into  the  world,  he  wrote  and  solicited  her  hand  from  the 
Colonel  for  his  only  son  Joseph.  Colonel  Carey  was  not 
averse  t-o  the  proposition  ;  and  as  in  a  few  years  the  yonng 
people  were  quite  fond  of  each  other,  they  were  married. 
Prospect  Hall  was,  in  the  meantime,  ready  for  their  recep- 
tion. But  now,  Magdalene,  comes  that  part  of  the  story 
that  most  concerns  yourself.  Margaret,  your  mother,  was, 
by  Mary's  earnest  entreaty,  her  first  bridesmaid  ;  and,  in 
that  capacity,  accompanied  her  to  the  hall,  and  was  thrown 
into  all  the  wedding  festivities  of  the  neighborhood.  Pros- 
pect Hall  was  filled  with  gay  company  for  weeks,  and,  in- 
deed, until  the  awful  tragedy,  the  murder  of  Captain  Carey, 
dispersed  them.  Among  the  guests  were  the  Mountjoys  of 
Alta  Bayou,  the  Brokes  of  Forest  Hall,  besides  many  dis- 
tinguished visitors,  friends  of  Col.  Carey,  from  up  the 
country.  The  first  groomsman  of  Captain  Washington  was 
Victor,  the  youngest  son  of  General  Mountjoy.  Well,  in 
nil  the  ridings,  walkings,  sittings,  or  dancings  of  the  bridal, 
it,  of  course,  according  to  the  local  custom,  fell  to  the  lot 
of  Victor  Mountjoy  to  escort,  or  attend,  or  dance  with 
Margaret.  Ah  !  Magdalene,  you  know  the  rest  without 
my  telling  you.  It  is  the  stereotyped  plot  of  all  the  love- 
stories  in  the  world.  They  loved  each  othei1.  Victor  was 
honorable.  Margaret  innocent.  Victor  confessed  his  love, 
and  asked  his  father's  consent  to  marry  her.  General 
Mountjoy  commanded  him  never  to  see  Margaret  again,  on 
the  pain  of  his  severest  displeasure.  Victor,  I  am  willing 
to  think,  was  inclined  to  do  his  duty  and  obey  this  com- 


MOTHER.  197 

mand ;  but  then  he  had  to  go  and  tell  Margaret,  and  in 
that  interview  his  dutiful  resolutions  all  melted  away.  He 
would  have  persuaded  Margaret  to  marry  him — at  least  I 
presumed  that  this  was  so,  for  the  end  of  the  interview  was, 
that  Victor  led  Margaret  into  the  grange,  and  asked  her 
of  her  parents ;  in  requital  of  which  straightforward  ho- 
nesty, Adam  Hawk  ordered  him  out  of  the  house,  locked 
nis  daughter  up,  and  abused  his  wife  for  not  looking 
sharper  after  her.  I  was  present  then,  and  I  know  that 
from  that  time  the  life  of  the  poor  girl  was  made  miserable 
by  the  well-meant  but  mistaken  harshness  of  her  father. 
She  was  grieving  for  her  violent  severance  from  Victor,  for 
her  enforced  separation  from  her  dear  friend,  Mary  Wash- 
ington, and  left  without  the  least  sympathy.  Her  stern 
father  would  not  permit  her  to  visit  Prospect  Hall,  lest  she 
should  be  thrown  into  the  society  of  'some  other  puppy  ;' 
nor  would  he  permit  her  mother  to  say  one  consoling  word 
to  her  for  fear  of  '  enervating  the  girl,  and  making  her  be- 
lieve that  she  had  something  to  cry  for.'  The  end  of  all 
this  was,  Magdalene,  that  one  night  at  prayer-time  the 
maiden  was  missed  from  her  place  ;  and  while  Adam  Hawk 
was  beating  up  all  the  quarters  of  the  plantation  in  search 
of  her,  her  hand  was  resting  in  that  of  Victor's,  and  the 
minister  was  pronouncing  over  them  the  marriage  benedic- 
tion." 

"  They  were  married  ! — they  were  married  !  Heaven's 
richest  blessings  on  you  for  that  intelligence !  Why,  then, 
do  I  not  bear  my  father's  name  ?" 

"  Listen  I  they  were  married,  or  thought  they  were. 
They  went  to  Richmond.  They  lived  there  nearly  a  year, 
during  which  time  Victor's  pocket-money,  watch,  etc.,  and 
at  last  his  credit,  came  to  an  end.  They  sunk  into  extreme 
penury.  Victor  got  employment  wherever  he  could,  rath»-r 
than  soe  his  young  \vif<>  starve  or  freeze.  He  haunted  the 
12 


198  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

steamboat  wharf,  and  became  porter  whenever  he  could. 
But  Victor  was  naturally  of  a  delicate  organization.  Want, 
toil,  sorrow,  remorse  wore  away  his  health,  and  in  less  thai) 
twelve  months  after  his  ill-starred  marriage,  Victor  Mount- 
joy  (sad  misnomer)  lay  upon  his  death-bed.  He  wrote  U 
his  father,  General  Mountjoy,  saying  that  for  himself  he 
never  should  have  dared  to  ask  forgiveness — but  that  now, 
from  his  sick  bed,  he  implored  his  mercy  on  his  wife  and 
child.  In  reply  to  this  letter  General  Mountjoy  wrote  to 
him — informing  him  that  his  marriage  was  illegal,  null 
and  void — for  that  himself  and  the  girl  were  minors,  and 
had  eloped  against  the  commands  of  their  parents.  That 
if  he  would  immediately  break  the  discreditable  connectio  i, 
his  family  would  suitably  provide  for  the  girl  and  her  child, 
and  open  their  doors  for  the  return  of  their  prodigal  sen. 
That  until  they  were  separated  nothing  should  be  done  to 
alleviate  the  sufferings  of  either..  The  heaviest  blow  was 
the  news  that  his  marriage  would  not  stand  ;  that  he  she  nld 
leave  his  wife  and  child  beggared,  ruined,  and  will  out 
hope.  Could  he  have  left  the  State  with  Margaret,  and 
legalized  his  union  by  a  marriage  in  Maryland,  he  wi  uld 
have  done  it — but  far  from  the  boundary  line,  and  prost  'ate 
upon  a  bed  of  illness,  he  was  powerless.  Death  was  on 
him — death,  hastened  by  these  sorrows — and  the  second 
day  from  the  reception  of  that  letter — he  died.  Yes  !  he 
died  of  hunger,  cold,  and  his  father's  cruelty.  A  fortnight 
after  that,  Magdalene,  at  the  dead  of  night,  in  the  midst  of  a 
furious  snow-storm — your  mother  reached  her  home  to  die." 

Again — nor  frown  of  brow,  nor  flash  of  eye,  nor  motion 
of  lip,  nor  change  of  color — betrayed  the  slow  and  sure 
coming  of  the  deadly  hatred  with  which  her  heart  was  filling 
full 

Again  Bruin  spoke — 

"  The  judgment  of  Heaven  seemed  to  fall  upon  General 


MOTHER.  199 

Mountjoy.  Of  four  other  tall  and  handsome  sons,  not  one 
remains.  Of  several  fine  grandchildren,  only  one  puny 
boy !» 

At  this  instant  the  breaking  of  twigs  and  dry  leaves 
under  a  heavy  tread,  drew  their  attention,  and  in  another 
moment  the  Goblin  stood  before  them  saying — 

"  Gee-hoss-o'-fat,  King  of  the  Dews,  ain't  this  a  singular 
co-inference.  Here  have  I  been  seeking  of  Mr.  Bruin  all 
over  the  plantation,  an'  jes  'bandoned  the  'suit,  when  here  I 
fin's  the  extinguish'  geraman  hisself,  with  the  'dentical 
skyentifick  book,  on  the  'dentical  road  we  wishes  of  him  to 
travel !  Good-evening  to  you,  master!" 

"  Well,  Gulliver  !  what  did  you  want  of  me — and  above 
all  things,  where  are  all  these  people  going  ?"  inquired  the 
dwarf,  pointing  to  a  group  of  negroes  who  had  passed  them 
on  the  road. 

"  Yes,  sir !  yes !  that's  what  I  were  going  for  to 
enumerate.  There  are  to  be  a  'journeyed  'vention  o'  the 
colored  poplin  o'  these  districts,  at  the  Old  Turnpike  Glade, 
for  the  confusion  of  useful  knowledge  among  the  risin' 
degeneracy.  White  poplin  'vited  to  'tend — no  difference 
what  color.  An'  I  myself  was  'missioned  by  the  'mittee  to 
'vite  Mr.  Bruin,  the  extinguished  Phrenzyologist,  to  'liver  a 
lecture  on  Phrenzyology  an'  Oazyology,  an'  to  tell  him  as 
a  number  o'  crazy-urns  (craniums)  would  be  'mitted,  for 
the  jiractical  examplatiou  o'  the  skyence."  And  having 
delivered  this  eloquent  oration,  the  Goblin  bowed,  with  au 
air  of  extreme  self-satisfaction,  and  waited  hi?  answer. 

"Yes!  tell  them  I  will  be  along  soon,"  replied  the  dwarf, 
to  the  surprise  of  Magdalene. 

But  when  Gulliver,  with  a  second  and  deeper  bow,  left 
them  alone,  Bruin  said — 

"  Yes,  Magdalene,  I  will  go  and  make  them  a  -speech. 
What  right  have  I  to  laugh  at  them  ?  I  sometimes  think 


200  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

that  the  pedantry  and  pretension  of  our  greatest  philoso- 
phers are  as  amusing  to  the  angels  as  the  Goblin's  learning 
and  magniloquence  to  us.  Yes,  Magdalene,  I  will  go,  and 
thank  God  for  the  opportunity  of  saying  something  to  a 
crowd  that  may  possibly  do  them  good  1" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE     YOUNG      HOUSEKEEPERS. 


"To  cheer,  with  sweet  repast,  the  fainting  guest, 
To  lull  the  weary  on  the  couch  of  rest, 
To  warm  the  traveler  numbed  with  winter  cold, 

The  sad  to  comfort,  aud  the  lost  direct. 

These  are  their  cares,  and  this  their  glorious  task, 

Can  Heaven  a  nobler  give,  or  mortal  ask  ?" 

—Sir  William  Jones. 


THE  time  arrived  for  the  termination  of  Helen  Hervey's 
governess  duties  at  the  Hall,  and  the  emancipation  of  her 
pupils  from  her  gentle  rule.  Miss  Hervery  had  tried  to 
persuade  Judge  Washington  to  give  his  granddaughter  the 
advantage  of  a  two  years'  residence  at  some  fashionable 
finishing  school ;  but  to  this  proposition  the  Judge  was 
firmly  opposed. 

It  was  early  on  a  Spring  morning  that  Mr.  Hervey  ar- 
rived in  a  gig  to  take  Helen  home.  Helen  took  leave  of 
her  pupils  with  some  emotion;  but  consoling  herself  and 
them  with  the  reflection  that  the  Old  Forest  Parsonage 
was  but  a  few  miles  off,  a  pleasant  morning  or  afternoon 
ride  ;  that,  therefore,  they  should  all  occasionallv  meet 


THE     YOU. NO     HOUSEKEEPERS.  201 

during  the  week,  as  well  as  regularly  every  Sabbath  at 
church.  After  she  was  gone,  Virginia  and  Magdalene  re- 
mained on  the  piazza  looking  after  her,  until  the  sweeping 
curve  of  the  carriage  drive  took  her  in  a  semicircle  around 
to  the  back  of  the  grounds  toward  the  thick  woods  behind, 
in  which  she  was  quickly  lost  to  sight. 

Then  the  Judge,  with  the  view  of  turning  their  attention 
from  sad  subjects,  placed  a  benedictory  hand  on  each  young 
head,  and  then  said  : 

"  My  dears,  you  are  freed  from  the  schoolroom  only  to 
be  promoted  to  the  superintendence  of  household  affairs. 
Up  to  this  time,  Polly  Pepper  has  managed  pretty  well  for 
an  old  man,  two  girls,  and  their  governess  ;  but  Polly,  as  she 
says  herself,  has  been  '  growing  older  and  older  every  day'  of 
her  life  ;  therefore  the  establishment  requires  other  manage- 
ment. I  suppose,  now  that  I  have  a  young  lady  to  present 
to  the  world,"  continued  he,  stroking  Virginia's  glistening 
red  hair,  and  looking  with  affectionate  pride  upon  her, 
"  that  I  should  be  expected  to  engage  some  accomplished 
housekeeper ;  but  the  same  feeling  that  prevented  me  from 
sending  you  away  from  home  to  a  fashionable  academy,  my 
dear,  hinders  me  now  from  placing  a  stranger  at  the  head 
of  my  household.  I  prefer  that  my  own  girls  should  be  at 
the  head  of  domestic  affairs.  Come  with  me  into  the  library, 
and  we  will  talk  further  of  this  matter,"  and  patting  the 
two  girls  on  the  head,  he  sent  them  in  before  him. 

It  was  arranged  that  Virginia  and  Magdalene  should 
keep  house  alternate  weeks,  Virginia  taking  the  first  week, 
and  entering  upon  her  duties  from  the  next  Monday,  (this 
being  Friday.) 

Virginia  began  her  new  career  with  the  zeal  and  ardor 
that  characterized  all  the  feelings,  sayings,  and  doings  of 
our  oeautiful  red-haired  girl.  What  a  housekeeper  she 
would  be  indeed  !  What  bread,  what  butter,  what  cheese 


202  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

she  would  make !  What  tongues  and  hams  she  would 
cure !  What  domestic  carpets,  counterpanes,  and  quilts 
she  would  manufacture  !  What  webs  of  linen,  cotton,  and 
woolen  cloth  she  would  weave  !  What  socks  and  stockings 
she  would  knit ;  or  rather,  in  what  a  very  superior  manner 
she  would  have  these  things  done,  and  how  many  prizes 
would  be  won  at  the  newly-established  Agricultural  Fair ! 
until  suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  that  all  the  prizes  she 
would  win,  Magdalene  would  miss,  and  then  she  hastily 
sought  Magdalene.  She  found  Magdalene  in  her  own 
chamber,  engaged  in  painting  an  historic  subject — the  trial 
of  Joan  of  Arc.  For  months  past  Magdalene  Hawk's 
natural  serenity  had  fallen  into  melancholy ;  lately  the 
melancholy  had  deepened  into  gloom.  The  family  had 
sought,  by  every  delicate  and  affectionate  effort,  to  raise 
her  spirits,  but  without  success.  Judge  Washington  had 
been  especially  kind,  attentive,  and  even  respectful  to  the 
girl,  whose  perfect  beauty,  grace,  truth,  and  genius,  had 
won  his  highest  admiration,  while  her  unfortunate  social 
position  appealed  to  his  tenderest  and  most  benevolent 
sympathies ;  but  all  in  vain.  The  goodness  of  Judge 
Washington  did  but  deepen  the  gloom  upon  her  spirits. 
It  was  indeed  partly  in  the  hope  of  dissipating  this  sadness, 
that  the  Judge  had  associated  her  with  his  granddaughter 
in  the  government  of  the  household. 

Virginia,  now  dancing  into  the  room,  entreated  her  to 
choose  from  among  the  dairy,  the  spinning-room,  or  the 
kitchen,  that  department  of  domestic  economy  in  which  she 
would  prefer  to  excel,  and  leave  her  the  others.  This 
Magdalene  declined  doing,  averring  that  she  was  sure  she 
should  never  reach  eminence  by  any  of  these  roads.  Tl « 
sanguine  blood  of  our  red-haired  child  rushed  to  her  brow 
at  this  irony,  but  Virginia  had  learned  to  repress  her  eoulli- 
tions  of  temper.  A  moment's  thought,  too,  convinced  her 


THE     YOUNG     HOUSEKEEPERS.  203 

that  this  sarcasm  npon  her  favorite  pursuits  was  not  really 
leveled  at  herself,  and  she  replied  gently : 

That  is  true,  Magdalene  ;  true,  only  because  Providence 
intended  me  for  nothing  better  than  a  good  daughter,  sister, 
and  housewife,  and  I  think  that  nature  designed  yon  for 
something  more  than  that.  You  very  much  excel  me  in 
every  drawing-room  accomplishment,  Magdalene.  Besides,- 
father,"  (as  she  called  her  grandfather)  "  father,  Bruin,  Jo- 
seph— all  say  that  you  have  so  much  genius,  so  that  you 
see  you  may  easily  afford  to  let  me  win  some  praise  in  the 
housekeeping  department." 

Touched  by  her  gentle  reply,  Magdalene  passed  her  arm 
around  the  waist  of  Virginia,  and  drawing  her  to  her  bosom, 
said : 

"  My  dearest  Virginia,  my  dearest  girl,  you  have  one 
grace  for  which  it  were  well  for  me  if  I  could  barter  all 
the  best  gifts  I  may  chance  to  possess — you  have  GOOD- 
NESS, my  own  darling,  goodness,  love,  forbearance  for 
all  1" 

"  Ah,  Lena,  don't  tell  me  that,  dear ;  I  have  had  such  a 
temper  in  my  time !  And  even  now — even  now !  Why, 
Lena,  if  ever  I  try  to  hope  I  have  conquered  my  faults,  I 
am  sure  soon  to  fall  into  some  evil  temper  that  convinces 
me  of  my  error.  Ah,  Lena,  after  all,  the  best  thing  in  me 
is  onlv  my  earnest  wish  that  I  were  good — that  I  could  do 
something  for  all  God's  goodness  to  me.  Father  says, 
"love  God,"  but  all  my  feelings  are  demonstrative  or  no- 
thing. When  I  was  an  irritable  little  child,  some  years  ago, 
if  I  grew  angry  with  any  one,  I  wished  to  slap  them  in  the 
face,  or  if  I  loved  any  one,  I  wished  to  hug  and  kiss  them. 
Now,  when  I  feel  benevolence,  gratitude,  love,  toward  any 
being,  human  or  divine,  I  wish  to  act  it  out.  Now,  I  do 
feel  gratitude,  love,  to  my  Father,  for  all  his  boundless  mer- 
cies— but  I  do  not  act  it  ont,  alas  !  No,  no,  Magdalene. 


204  THE     TWO     SI6TEKS. 

do  not  call  me  good  ;  by  contrast,  it  makes  me  feel  so  very, 
very  bad  /" 

Short-lived,  far  too  short-lived  were  all  Virginia's  quick 
emotions.  Soon  leaving  the  serious  subject  of  her  thoughts, 
and  reverting  to  the  former  one  of  their  conversation,  she 
wiid  : 

"  Talking  of  your  accomplishments,  Magdalene,  I  saw 
Bruin  shake  his  wise  head  yesterday  with  a  look  of  infinite 
profundity,  and  say — it  was  immediately  after  your  reading 
the  supper  scene  in  Macbeth — '  she  reads  that  well — loo  well 
— -far  too  well !'  What  did  he  mean  by  that,  Lena  ?" 

Magdalene  smiled  gravely,  but  remained  silent.  When 
at  last  she  spoke,  it  was  in  reference  to  their  relative  posi- 
tion. 

"Virginia,  you  and  I  are  two  young  girls,  little  over 
fifteen  years  of  age,  and  we  are  not  supposed  to  know  much 
of  society ;  yet  this  much  even  books  have  taught  us — 
namely,  that  while  a  wealthy  and  beautiful  heiress  of  a  dis- 
tinguished family  takes  the  highest  place  in  society,  a  girl, 
who  bears  her  mother's  maiden  surname,  has  no  entree 
therein.  I  do  not  complain  of  this,  dearest ;  of  any  social 
law  that  secures  the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number ; 
I  only  say  that  it  is  so — that  Magdalene  Hawk  has  beeu 
made  to  feel  it  all  her  life — that  neither  Judge  Washington's 
protection,  nor  his  daughter's  love,  has  been  able  to  shield 
her  from  it — that  directly  or  indirectly,  silently  or  in  words, 
she  has  been  taunted  with  it  from  childhood,  by  even  the 
very  menials  of  the  plantation  !" 

"  Oh,  Magdalene !  Magdalene !  and  all  of  these  many 
years  you  have  not  complained  !  Oh,  Magdalene,  why  is  it 
that  you  shut  your  heart  up  so  from  all  your  friends  ?  Why 
is  it  that  you  never,  except  when  you  are  questioned,  speak 
of  yourself,  your  thoughts,  your  feelings,  your  sufferings,  or 
your  purposes  r  Why  did  you  not  complain  of  the  very 


THE     YOUXG     HOUSEKEEPERS.  205 

first  affront  you  received  ?  If  you  had,  that  would  also 
have  been  the  last  affront  offered  to  you ;  insult  to  our  pro- 
tege, our  guest,  Magdalene,  would  have  been  visited  with 
greater  severity  than  any  offense  against  me,  the  daughter 
of  the  house,  for  obvious  reasons." 

"  I  know  it,  and  therefore,  among  other  reasons,  I  would 
not  complain  even  in  childhood.  Ginnie,  darling,  among  a 
thousand  faults,  I  have  not  that  of  petty  vengeance ;  I 
cannot  punish  a  weak  or  powerless  offender — any  thing  by 
birth,  education,  or  position,  inferior  to  myself  is  safe,  even 
from  my  just  anger,  while  they  may  be  sure  of  my  protection 
and  assistance,  as  far  as  I  have  power,  and  they  nave  need." 

"  Oh,  Magdalene,  how  noble  !  how  magnanimous  !  how 
different  from  my  petty  vengeances !  May  I  become  like 
you,  Magdalene  I" 

"  May  you  never,  never  be  like  me.  No,  Virginia,  it  is 
from  no  Christian  feeling,  but  out  of  an  inherent  personal 
pride,  that  this  forbearance  grows.  The  time  is  at  hand 
when  society  will  brand  upon  my  brow  the  name — the  name 
— the  NAME  ! — with  which  I  will  not  sully  your  pure  ear, 
Virginia — the  name  •  that  negro  slaves,  in  their  spite  and 
jealousy,  have  called  me !  Shall  I,  who  will  have  no  power 
to  reverse  the  sentence  of  the  world — shall  /  take  a  mean 
vengeance  on  the  poor  negroes  ? — Nonsense  !  never  /" 

Virginia  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  sparkling  tire — her 
sanguine  blood  crimsoning  the  brow  through  which  the 
swollen  ve?n  throbbed,  as  she  exclaimed,  passionately  : 

"  You  have  no  right  to  that  name ! — no  right  to  that 
name !  Let  me  hear  of  any  one  who  has  called  you  that 
name,  and  they  shall  leave  the  plantation  this  day.  Society  ! 
I  have  heard  all  my  life  of  the  place  I  should  hold  in  so- 
ciety— the  duty  I  owed  society ;  but  that  world  that  frowns 
upon  yon,  Magdalene,  shall  never  have  a  chance  of  smiling 
upon  me  !  That  world  which  would  crush  the  crown  of 


206  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

thorns  into  your  noble  brow,  Magdalene,  shall  never  place 
the  diadem  of  its  loyal  approbation  upon  mine.  Oh,  do 
not — do  not  talk  so  1  I  do  so  much  wish  to  govern  myself, 
and  not  to  get  angry.  But  do  not — do  not,  Magdalene  !" 

And  Ginnie's  little  gust  of  passion  passed  off  in  a  showei 
of  tears  upon  Magdalene's  neck. 

Magdalene,  who  only  answered  this  outburst  by  saying, 
gently — 

"  Enthusiast ! — you  know  not  what  you  say  !" 

Magdalene,  Magdalene  !  I  have  been  betrayed  into  one 
of  my  angry  fits  again.  Magdalene,  those  who  insult  you, 
fling  a  slur  upon  the  white  bosom  of  my  own  angel  where 
you  lay  in  infancy.  Magdalene,  it  is  partly  your  own  act — 
why  do  you  call  yourself  by  your  mother's  maiden  name, 
when  the  proudest  name  in  the  State  is  yours  by  every 
family  and  every  legal  right,  Magdalene  Mountjoy  ?" 

"  No,  Ginnie,  no,  never  will  I  assume  the  name  of  a 
family  who  give  no  sign  of  their  knowledge  of  my  existence. 
No,  Ginnie,  no  !  Old  Adam  Hawk  is  stern  and  harsh,  and 
oftentimes  unjust,  and  he  has  graved  upon  my  heart  some 
hard  thoughts  of  himself — but  he  is  proud  and  honest — he 
bestowed  upon  me  all  he  had,  his  half-savage  name.  I  like 
it  1  It  suits  me  !  Magdalene  Hawk  !" 

"  Alas,  how  did  this  painful  conversation  originate  ?" 

"  You  were  speaking  of  my  poor  accomplishments.  You 
said  that  Bruin  shook  his  head  with  a  look  of  profound 
wisdom,  and  declared  that  I  read  Macbeth  too  well.  You 
wished  to  know  what  he  meant.  /  know  what  he  meant  as 
fie  knows  what  /mean  !  Virginia,  I  must  leave  you,  darl 
ing  !" 

"  Leave  me,  Lena  ?" 

"  Yes,  clear,  for  your  own  best  interest  and  for  mine.  Do 
you  know  what  makes  the  Judge  look  so  sad  and  moody 
when  he  contemplates  us  ?  I  will  tell  you.  The  time  is 


THE     Y  C  U  N  G     hOUSEKEEPERS.          207 

near  at  hand  when  he  must  bring  his  heiress  out !  What 
shall  he  do  with  her  foster  sister  ?  That  question,  that  dif- 
ficulty pains  his  kind  heart.  He  had  hoped,  no  doubt,  that 
his  patronage  would  have  been  a  passport  for  me  into  the 
best  society — the  last  year  past  has  convinced  him  of  his 
mistake.  When  Judge  and  Miss  Washington  are  invited 
out  to  tea,  Magdalene  Hawk  is  always  neglected !" 

"  But  does  Ginnie  ever  go  when  her  sister  has  been  for- 
gotten ?" 

"Forgotten!" 

"Yes,  forgotten.  I  will  believe  that  they  have  consid- 
ered you  only  a  casual  visitor,  and  so  forgotten  you,  Mag- 
dalene !" 

"  Well,  let  it  pass.  No,  Virginia  never  accepts  an  invi- 
tation iu  which  her  sister  is  not  included.  But  this  must 
not  continue.  Miss  Washington  must  not  be  secluded  from 
the  world  because  Magdalene  Hawk  is  not  admitted  into 
it.  Upon  this  very  account  must  Magdalene  leave  her 
sister  1" 

"  Ob,  Lena,  do  not  talk  so  I  What  can  the  world  give 
me  in  exchange  for  my  dear  sister  ?"  said  Giunie,  clingiug 
to  her  fondly. 

Magdalene  held  her  there  a  long  time,  and  then  said, 

"Virginia,  darling,  I  am  not  that  I  seem  ;  people  call  me 
steady,  still,  patient.  The  Judge  praises  my  calmness,  my 
prudence,  my  self-possession.  They  do  not  know  me.  He 
does  not  know  me.  I  did  not  till  lately — perhaps  I  do  not 
now,  know  myself.  Ginnie,  I  am  not  calm  I  or  if  calm,  not 
contented.  No,  this  seeming  quietude  is  an  insupportable 
heaviness  of  heart." 

"What  have  you  really  to  make  your  heart  heavy, 
Lena  ?" 

"  That  is  what  /do  not  fully  understand.  I  know  most 
certainly  that  it  is  not  f'-om  any  of  the  causes  I  have  men- 


208  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

tioned.  I  am  proud,  Virginia,  yet  it  is  not  wounded  pride  1 
I  am  ambitious,  yet  it  is  not  the  yearnings  of  ambition  !  It 
is  an  insupportable  oppression  of  spirits  that  I  struggle 
against  in  vain  !  I  awake  in  the  morning  with  a  heavy, 
heavy  weight  upon  my  bosom,  that  I  can  neither  compre- 
hend nor  shake  off.  I  try  to  occupy  myself  with  our  daily 
tasks  and  amusements,  but  they  do  not  interest  me — the  day 
is  so  tedious,  life  so  weary — a  mere  round  of  eating,  drink- 
ing, sleeping.  I  want-— I  know  not  what !  I  must  do — I 
know  not  what ! — but  something.  Life  oppresses  me  most 
in  the  morning,  when  all  life  is  waking  to  light !  The  sun 
brings  me  no  gladness  !  I  see  him  rise,  and  think  that  so 
he  has  been  rising  a  hundred  ages,  and  I  wonder  if  he  is  not 
weary  of  the  ceaseless  round.  I  see  the  sun  set,  and  I  feel 
a  sort  of  content  that  soon  I  shall  lose  all  consciousness  of 
life  in  a  deep  sleep." 

%  "  There  is  something  the  matter  with  you,  Lena.     You 
are  not  well  1     You  must  see  Doctor  McArthur  !" 

"  Oh,  1  am  very  well — too  well !  I  wish  that  I  were  not ! 
A  pain,  I  think,  would  loosen — as  it  were — scatter  this 
weight  in  my  bosom.  But  tell  me,  Grinnie — I  am  sometimes 
curious  to  know — have  you  any  such  experiences  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  Lena  ;  I  awake  in  the  morning  so  beauti- 
fully— as  if  my  guardian  angel  had  kissed  my  eyelids — and 
I  see  before  me  my  mother's  dawn  window,  with  the  beau- 
tiful morning  breaking,  and  the  glorious  sun  rising,  and 
never,  never  do  I  get  tired  of  that  vision  of  beauty  and  sub- 
limity, for  .never  does  it  appear  the  same,  and  ever  does  it 
present  infinite  variety.  I  feel  how  faithful  our  Father  is  to 
send  the  light  of  day ;  I  feel  loving  and  grateful  for  life  and 
light,  and  I  cannot  help  praising  and  praying  then  !  Then 
1  get  up  and  dress.  Now  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth — • 
as  I  stand  before  the  glass  and  twine  the  red  ringlets  round 
my  fingers  and  let  them  drop,  and  as  they  gUstw  so  bril- 


THE     YOUNG     HOUSEKEEPERS.  209 

liantly  in  the  morning  sun,  I  feel  grateful  to  the  Lord  even 
for  giving  me  such  beautiful  hair!" 

"  And  such  a  beautiful  face  and  form,  my  dearest  love  !" 
"Well,  yes,  I  hope  it  is  not  vanity,  or  if  it  is,  I  hope  I 
shall  be  able  to  put  it  away  from  uae — but  my  soul  loves 
my  body's  beauty  as  if  it  were  its  sister's — aud  oh,  I  feel 
so  thankful  to  be  beautiful,  because  it  makes  those  I  love 
happy,  and  makes  them  love  me  more!  You  are  smiling 
now,  Lena  !  Oh,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  smile,  if  it  is  even 
at  my  folly  !  And  now  I  am  going  to  make  you  smile 
more,  and  at  more  folly.  Next — don't  be  disgusted — I 
think  about  breakfast !  You  know  I  have^a  very  good  ap- 
petite, and  I  anticipate,  with  great  gusto,  the  fragrant 
coffee,  the  hot  muffins,  fresh  butter,  soft  crabs,  or  potted 
perch.  And  then,  I  think,  how  soon  I  may  be  able  to  get 
done  trimming  the  flowers,  and  how  much  I  can  do  on 
father's  shirts  before  it  is  time  to  take  our  morning  ride ; 
and — if  it  happens  to  be  my  week — of  what  I  shall  give 
out  for  dinner  ;  and  of  our  afternoon  sewing,  and  our  sail 
\ipon  the  bay,  and  our  round  among  the  quarters,  and  of 
supper,  and  finally  of  our  delightful  evening  readings  in  the 
wainscoted  parlor.  And  above  all,  I  wonder  whether  dear- 
est Joseph  will  be  able  to  leave  his  writing-desk  and 
spend  the  whole  day  with  us  or  not.  And,  oh  I  I  have  not 
told  you  a  tithe  of  what  I  have  to  think  of  and  to  do  ! 
And  through  all  I  feel  so  profoundly  grateful  to  the  Lord 
for  opening  to  us  so  many  avenues  to  happiness,  that  their 
multiplicity  is  really,  though  delightfully,  confusing.  Lastly. 
]  go  to  bed  at  night  very,  very  tired  !  and  it  is  the  last  of 
luxuries  to  fall  asleep.  Then  I  dream  such  beautiful  dreams  ! 
Lena,  you  shall  come  out  of  your  room  and  sleep  with  me ! 
I  always  did  want  you  to  come  and  sleep  with  me,  and  so 
you  shall ;  and  I  will  love  away  that  gloom  from  your 
spirits  just  as  the  sun  shines  away  the  night.  Ah  !  Lena. 


210  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

be  happy.  You  have  every  thing  that  I  have  to  make  you 
happy.  We  are  very  much  alike  in  many  things.  We  are 
both  orphans — we  have  each  a  grandfather — we  are  foster 
sisters  as  our  mothers  were  before  us.  I  acknowledge  the 
relation  with  all  its  claims,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  1  As 
long  as  I  live,  Lena  1  all  that  I  have  is  thine  !  At  present 
we  have  the  same  home,  the  same  occupations,  the  same 
amusements." 

"  Yes  ;  /,  by  sufferance — not  by  right !" 

"  By  right,  Lena  ;  by  every  right !" 

"  By  sufferance  !  I  am  made  to  feel  it  every  day.  No, 
Ginnie ;  dearest  sister,  I  am  in  a  false  position,  and  I  em- 
barrass all  around  me.  Let  me  go  !" 

Virginia  threw  her  arms  around  Magdalene's  neck  again, 
and  said, 

"  Why  go  ?  Listen  to  me  !  I  want  to  keep  with  me  as 
long  as  I  live  all  that  I  have  with  rae  now — dearest  grand- 
father, as  long  as  his  life  shall  last,  and  Josey  and  you. 
And  that  that  may  be  so  I  do  hope  that,  by-and-by,  Josey 
will  marry  either  you  or  me,  just  which  he  likes  best,  and 
then  we  can  all  live  together,  and  never  be  separated. 
Why  should  people  who  love  each  other  separate  ?  It  al- 
most kills  me  to  think  of  parting.  Do  not  talk  of  it  any 
more,  please,  Magdalene  !  Put  it  out  of  your  head.  In- 
deed it  will  make  me  ill  if  you  do  not  !  My  head  aches 
now,  indeed  it  does.  Any  thing  that  grieves  me  makes  me 
ill,  you  know,  Magdalene  !  Oh  Magdal-ene,  I  love  yon 
so  dearly,  don't  grieve  me,  let  me  be  happy !" 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE     LOVE-SPELLS     OF     HALLOW     EVB. 


r,  —  I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vusty  deep  i 
Hotspur.  —  Why,  so  can  I,  or  so  can  any  man  : 

But  will  they  come  when  yon  do  call  for  them  ?  —  Shakspeare. 

MAGDALENE  was  accustomed  to  say  that  those  she  loved 
could  make  an  angel  or  a  demon  of  her.  Those  she  loved 
indeed,  possessed  great  power  over  that  proud  heart  in  ita 
sternest  mood.  Virginia's  clasping  arms,  and  tearful  eyes, 
and  pleading  voice,  arrested  Magdalene  before  she  had 
given  her  vague  intentions  the  form  and  substance  of  a  de- 
fined purpose.  She  spoke  no  more  of  leaving  Prospect 
Hall,  but  nevertheless  "pondered  these  things  in  her  heart." 
That  her  singular  position  in  the  family  embarrassed  every 
member  thereof,  was  but  too  painfully  evident  —  that  they 
each  and  all  loved  her  too  well  to  willingly  permit  her  to 
see  this,  was  also  certain.  Did  not  duty  as  well  as  strong 
inclination  require  her  to  relieve  them  from  the  difficulty  by 
withdrawing  from  the  family  ?  She  felt  that  duty  did. 
Whither  should  she  go?  "The  world  was  all  before  her 
where  to  choose,"  and  within  her  strength  and  courage  to 
go  forth  and  cope  with  it.  But  her  first  advancing  step 
must  be  upon  the  hearts  of  those  who  loved  her;  and  who, 
indeed,  did  not  love  our  dark-haired  girl  with  an  affection 
deepened  by  compassion  and  elevated  by  admiration  ! 
Whither  should  she  go  ?  Her  grandfather  still  lived  at 
Blackthorn  Grange,  in  company  with  Bruin  the  dwarf,  and 
their  sole  domestic,  Gulliver  Goblin,  where,  year  by  year. 
he  had  grown  more  savage  and  morose.  The  residence  of 

(211) 


212  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

his  granddaughter  there  would  have  interrupted  and  an- 
noyed him.  Magdalene  felt  this  ;  and  as  the  infirmities  of 
advancing  years  had  not  yet  begun  to  affect  that  iron  con- 
6titutio.n — as  no  sort  of  want  on  his  part  appealed  to  her 
conscientiousness,  Magdalene  freely  indulged  her  great  re- 
pugnance to  returning  thither.  No  ;  excitement,  active  life, 
was  what  she  needed.  She  passed  in  mental  review  all  the 
roads  by  which  women,  thrown  upon  their  own  resources 
for  a  living,  generally  arrive  at  independence  or  distinction 
— at  wealth  or  eminence  she  would  fain  have  said,  but  that 
the  instances  were  so  very  rare.  Besides  mere  manual  labor, 
there  were  only — the  teacher's  desk,  the  pen,  the  stage ! 
At  a  superficial  glance,  the  first  of  these — the  teacher's  pro- 
fession seemed  to  be  the  most  desirable  for  her ;  but  was 
she  best  fitted,  or  at  all  desirable  to  the  profession  ? — for 
there  were  two  sides  to  every  subject,  and  Magdalene  de- 
termined to  look  upon  both,  and  in  the  perfect  truth  of  her 
heart  she  felt  and  admitted  that  she  who  could  not  at  all 
times  govern  her  own  spirit  was  unfit  to  govern  others. 
The  pen  ?  But  Magdalene's  life  was  all  unlived,  and  what 
had  she  to  say  ?  Besides,  she  felt  that  much  of  the  latent, 
the  undeveloped,  but  wild  energy  of  her  nature  must  be 
broken  or  exhausted  before  she  could  sit  down  patiently  day 
after  day,  night  after  night,  to  study  and  to  labor  for  distant 
and  doubtful  success.  The  stage  ?  That  had  a  potent  fas- 
cination fur  the  mind  of  the  restless  girl,  and  she  dwelt 
upon  the  idea  in  secret.  She  felt  that  Adam  Hawk  w  >uld 
be  outraged,  the  Judge  would  be  shocked,  Mr.  Hervey, 
Helen,  and  Joseph  scandalized,  and  Virginia  deeply  grieved 
and  mortified  by  such  a  proposition  on  her  part.  She 
could,  without  remorse,  have  outraged  Adam  Hawk,  shocked 
Judge  Washington,  scandalized  Mr.  Hervey,  Helen,  and 
Joseph  ;  but  with  all  her  independence,  energy,  and  daring, 
she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  grieve  and  mortify  the 


HALLOW     EVK.  213 

teuder-hearted  girl ;  this  restrained  her.  The  greatest  ten- 
derness is  sometimes  found  united  with  the  greatest  strength, 
and  so  it  was  in  Magdalene.  But  her  thoughtfulness  deep- 
ened into  melancholy,  her  melancholy  darkened  into  gloom 
"  I  am  a  trouble  and  a  discord  here  among  my  best  friends 
• — I  must  leave  them.  Better  I  should  give  Virginia  one 
short,  sharp  sorrow  on  rny  departure,  than  live  to  be  a  con- 
stant source  of  embarrassment  and  distress  to  her.  As  for 
the  rest — were  I  ever  so  fit  or  so  willing  to  be  a  teacher,  the 
blot  upon  my  name  would  exclude  me  from  success.  No  1 
1  am  fit  for  nothing  but  the  profession  I  have  thought  of. 
And  I  know  that,  be  its  toils,  its  difficulties,  its  tempta- 
tions, its  dangers  what  they  may,  /  can  enter  it  and  hold 
my  course  in  it  as  purely,  as  highly — who  knows  ? — perhaps 
as  eminently  as  the  great  and  good  Mrs.  Siddons  herself. 
At  least  the  profession  suits  me,  and  /  suit  it.  I  would 
Virginia  did  not  love  me  so." 

So  dreamed,  and  thought,  and  reasoned,  and  regretted 
our  troubled  gipsy.  But  Virginia  did  love  her  "  so," — and 
she  watched  her  "  so,"  and  yet  dared  not  speak  to  her  again 
upon  the  subject  of  her  gloom,  lest  she  should  hear  again 
something  about  her  wish  to  go  away.  No  suspicion  had 
Virginia  of  the  real  wish  and  purpose  of  her  sister.  No,  she 
naturally  supposed  that  if  Magdalene  wished  to  depart,  it 
would  be  to  become  a  governess  in  some  gentleman's  family. 
Judge  Washington  also  noticed  the  dejection  of  Magda- 
lene, and  without  suspecting  her  wish  to  leave  the  mansion- 
house,  but  divining  the  cause  of  her  pensiveness,  his  manner 
to  her  became  every  day  more  kind,  considerate,  and  affec- 
tionate. Joseph  also  noticed  it,  and  sought  by  every 
delicate  a^ention  to  assure  her  of  his  love  and  esteem. 

But  the  eyes — the  mind — the  heart  that  watched  Magda- 
lene with  the  intensest  interest,  were  those  of  which  she 
thought  th'  '»ast  in  the  world,  those  of  which  she  took  no 


214  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

note  at  all— those  of  Theodore  Hervey,  the  son  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Hervey,  the  brother  of  Helen,  the  college  chum  of 
Joseph  Carey. 

Theodore  Hervey  had  returned  from  college  10  spend  his 
vacations,  at  the  time  that  Helen  had  left  Prospect  Hull 
permanently.  But  Theodore  and  Helen  were  frequent 
visitors  at  the  mansion-house ;  and  all  that  he  saw  of 
Magdalene  Hawk  there,  and  all  that  his  sister  told  him  of 
her  in  their  intimate  conversations,  but  served  to  draw  and 
rivet  his  heart  to  our  dark,  stern  girl.  Theodore  Hervey 
was  very  much  like  his  sister  in  form,  features,  and  com- 
plexion ;  of  a  tall,  slight,  and  elegant  figure  ;  of  pale,  dark 
complexion,  and  hollow  features ;  of  shadowy  eyes,  and 
shadowy  hair,  and  that  natural  expression  of  profound,  but 
beautiful  melancholy,  peculiar  to  those  predestined  by  the 
love  of  the  gods  to  an  early  grave,  or  foredoomed  by  the 
hate  of  fiends  to  a  violent  and  bloody  death. 

He  was  now  reading  theology  with  his  father,  pre- 
paratory to  entering  Holy  Orders.  If  now  he  was  growing 
to  love  and  worship  Magdalene,  it  was  diffidently,  silently, 
reverently,  and  afar  off;  and  his  devotion  was  not  suspected 
by  any  one,  least  of  all  by  its  preoccupied  object,  among 
whose  restless  thoughts,  love  and  marriage  had  no  share. 

One  day,  late  in  the  autumn,  Virginia  sought  her  grand- 
father in  his  study,  and  requested  his  permission  to  invite  a 
a  party  of  young  people  from  the  neighborhood  to  spend  a 
week  or  two  at  Prospect  Hall,  with  a  view,  she  said,  of 
amusing  her  dear  sister,  and  raising  her  spirits.  The 
Judge,  caressing  his  amiable  child,  gave  his  consent,  hoping, 
in  bis  secret  heart,  that  the  beauty,  grace,  and  genius  of  his 
young  ward,  Magdalene,  might  find  such  favor  in  the  eyes 
of  their  visitors  as  to  induce  them  to  revoke  the  sentence  by 
which  she  had  been  tacitly  excluded  from  society.  Very 
happy  in  having  gained  her  grandfather's  consent  to  the 


HALLOW     EVE.  215 

party — very  merry  in  anticipation  of  the  frolic,  our  impul- 
sive child  bounded  away  to  consult  Magdalene  to  make  out 
her  list,  and  to  begin  her  preparations.  Helen  and  Theo- 
dore Hervey,  Broke  Shields,  the  devoted  cavalier  of  the 
former,  Viola  and  Violet  Swan,  the  twin  nieces  of  General 
Mouutjoy,  were  put  upon  the  list ;  and  to  these,  when  they 
were  submitted  to  the  Judge,  he  added  the  name  of  SIR 
CLINTON  CAREY. 

"And  who  is  he,  dearest  father?"  inquired  Virginia, 
with  surprise. 

"Your  mother's  English  cousin — your  second  cousin,  my 
child  I"  replied  the  Judge. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  remember  now  to  have  heard  of  him  1" 

"  He  has  been  making  the  tour  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  a 
part  of  Africa — he  has  lived  lately  in  Paris.  He  has  just 
come  out  to  Virginia,  and  is  now  a  guest  of  General 
Monntjoy." 

It  was  a  warm,  golden,  refulgent  autumn  morning,  when 
Virginia  and  Magdalene  left  the  wainscoted  parlor  at  the 
news  that  some  one  was  coming,  and  stood  in  the  vestibule 
to  receive  their  guests.  And  Virginia's  radiant  face  and 
joyous  air  proved  the  life  and  eagerness  of  her  social 
afi'ections.  The  fair  twin  sisters,  Viola  and  Violet  Swan  in 
advance.  She  clapped  her  hands  softly,  and  exclaimed — 

"  Here  they  come  !  the  beauties  !  the  fairies  !  See  how 
their  white  horses  fly !  Now  they  scud  along,  side  by  side  ! 
Now  they  spring  apart !  Now  they  come  together,  meet- 
ing softly  as  two  white  clouds !  Oh  I  the  loves !  the 
beauties  ! — look  at  them,  Magdalene  !" 

Very  well  worth  looking  at  they  were — those  two  fair 
sisters — so  very  fair — so  perfectly  alike,  that  none  but 
their  nearest  relatives  and  most  intimate  associates  could 
tell  them  apart — the  "  White  Swans "  they  were  called 
from  their  name  and  their  exceeding  fairness — by  some, 


216  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Silver  Swans,  from  their  name,  their  fairness,  and  their 
wealth.  They  were  blondes  of  the  snowy  order  like — 
themselves — not  of  the  snnuy  sort,  like  Virginia.  Virginia's 
complexion  was  a  blending  of  dazzling  white  with  glowing 
carnation,  her  eyes  were  brilliant  ultra-marine  blue,  and 
her  ringlets  a  glistening  red-gold.  "The  sisters"  had  fair, 
soft  complexions,  with  delicate,  peach-blossom  bloom ;  with 
clear,  light  blue  eyes,  and  pale,  yellow  hair.  Their  motions 
in  guiding  their  horses  were  light,  swift,  smooth,  and  grace- 
ful, and  so  simultaneous,  that  it  seemed  as  though  they 
were  actuated  by  the  same  soul. 

"  See,  they  have  outridden  Broke  Shields — but  now  he 
comes  up  with  them,"  said  Ginnie,  as  she  hastened  down 
the  steps  to  meet  them. 

Magdalene  lingered  behind.  She  saw  in  those  fair 
sisters  two  girls,  distant  relatives  of  General  Mountjoy, 
who,  without  any  claim  upon  him,  occupied  her  own  right- 
ful place  iii  the  home  and  heart  of  her  grandfather.  But 
she  noted  this  only  as  a  fact — only  in  passing — without 
one  bitter  feeling — for  our  "Indian  princess,"  with  all  her 
great  faults,  was  totally  incapable  of  envy  or  jealousy.  As 
the  sisters  came  up  the  steps,  holding  slightly  up  their  light- 
blue  riding-habits,  they  bowed  frigidly  in  acknowledgment 
of  Magdalene's  salutation,  and  a  cloud  passed  over  the 
sunshine  of  Virginia's  countenance.  Magdalene's  brow 
was  unruffled — serene — not,  alas,  in  meekness,  but  in  pride. 
Broke  Shields  gayly  saluted  her,  as  he  sprung  after  his 
cousins  into  the  house;  but  he  who  came  last — Theodore 
Hervey — addressed  her  with  profound  respect,  and  drawing 
her  arm  within  his  own,  took  her  into  the  house.  Blind 
Magdalene  !  But  with  her  own  heart  untouched  ;  with  her 
mind  preoccupied,  what  could  she  know  or  suspect  of  that 
deep,  unspoken  love  ? 

The  other  guests  of  the  little  party,  with  one  exception. 


HALLOW     EVE.  217 

assembled  in  the  course  of  the  day.  But  all  with  one 
accord,  though  without  preconcert,  avoided  Magdalene. 
Perhaps  this  was  in  part  Magdalene's  own  fault.  Wrap- 
ped in  her  pride  and  reserve,  she  had  not  shown  that 
courteous  bearing  to  the  visitors  which  they  had  a  right  to 
expect  from  every  member  of  their  host's  family.  And 
Magdalene  had  not  done  this,  from  a  haughty  aversion  to 
being  suspected  of  courting  society. 

That  evening,  after  an  early  tea,  ihe  girls  dispersed  to 
their  several  chambers  to  dress  for  the  drawing-room,  for 
there  was  to  he  an  accession  of  company,  for  whose  diver- 
sion some  scenes  from  Shakspeare  were  to  be  acted.  Mag- 
dalene sat  before  her  glass,  combing  out  her  long,  straight, 
glossy  black  hair — not  unconscious  of,  or  indifferent  to,  the 
midnight  beauty  of  her  own  countenance,  or  its  stormy 
power  of  expression.  The  promise  of  the  child  was  richly 
fulfilled  in  the  woman,  whose  dark  and  splendid  style  of 
beauty  had  its  correspondences  in  night,  in  starlight,  in 
storms,  in  fire,  in  the  fierce  flashing  and  burning,  or  in  the 
beautiful  languor  and  repose  of  the  leopardess's  counte- 
nance. Magdalene  bound  her  hair — that,  soft,  and  black, 
and  brilliant  as  herself,  was  also  firm  as  herself  in  refusing 
to  twine  its  jetty  locks  into  ringlets — into  large  bands,  that 
divided  about  her  majestic  brow,  and  sweeping,  like  two 
folds  of  glossy  black  satin,  down  each  crimson  cheek,  were 
twisted  into  a  rich  and  heavy  knot  behind,  confined  by  one 
large  golden  pin.  She  wore  a  dark  changeable  brocade, 
whose  shades  were  black,  and  whose  lights  were  crimson, 
and  without  ornament,  in  this  dark  bright  costume,  that 
suited  well  her  Indian  style,  she  went  down  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. The  apartment  was,  as  yet,  quite  vacant,  and 
she  stood  musing  before  the  fire.  The  glowing  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  drawing-room  threw  a  richer,  warmer, 
brighter  hue  over  the  gorgeous  picture  of  her  beauty. 


218  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

She  stood  there  musing,  lost  to  all  around  her — until  a 
voice  at  her  side  murmured, 

"  My  cousin,  Miss  Virginia  Washington,  I  presume  ?" 

Never  had  Magdalene  heard  tones  so  deep,  so  soft,  yet 
so  clear  as  these.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  behold  standing 
before  her  a  gentleman  of  princely  presence  and  almost 
godlike  beauty. 

"My  cousin,  Miss  Washington,  may  I  hope?"  inquired 
the  stranger  again. 

Those  tones,  the  most  mellifluous  she  ever  heard,  and 
coming  from  the  most  magnificent-looking  man  she  ever 
saw,  thrilled  upon  her  ear,  reached  her  heart.  But  nothing 
of  this  impromptu  admiration,  involuntary  worship,  was 
visible.  With  serene  courtesy  she  replied  : 

"  Miss  Washington  has  not  yet  left  her  own  apartment 
for  the  evening.  I  believe  I  have  the  pleasure  of  first  wel- 
coming Sir  Clinton  Carey  to  Prospect  Hall  ?" 

The  superb  stranger  bowed  and  smiled  with  stately  grace 
and  graciousness,  his  air  and  manner  at  the  same  time  pay- 
ing the  involuntary  tribute  of  admiration  to  the  beautiful 
girl  with  whom  he  spoke. 

"  Will  you  be  seated,  Colonel  Carey  ?"  inquired  Magda- 
lene, with  a  slight  move  of  her  hand  toward  an  arm-chair. 

Again  he  bowed  low,  nor  were  the  dark,  brilliant  eyes, 
eloquent  with  respectful  admiration,  withdrawn,  until  he 
said: 

"  I  have  the  honor  of  seeing — " 

"  Magdalene  Hawk,  Miss  Washington's  dame-du-com- 
pagnie,"  replied  our  girl,  with  the  slightest  perceptible  taste 
of  irony  in  her  words. 

The  gracious  brow  of  the  august  stranger  clouded,  and 
with  a  grave  bend  of  the  head,  he  sat  down. 

Light  footsteps  on  the  stairs — light  laughter  in  the  pas- 
sages— merry  voices  at  the  door,  and  the  girls  were  a?ll  in 


HALLOW     EVE.  219 

the  drawing-room.  Judge  Washington  was  among  them 
Perceiving  and  at  once  advancing  to  his  new  guest,  he  in- 
troduced him  to  the  company.  Last  of  all,  he  presented 
him  to  Virginia,  whose  radiant  beauty  that  evening  was 
brought  out  dazzlingly  by  the  contrast  of  her  dark  maza- 
rine-blue satin  dress.  Magdalene  saw,  without  seeming  to 
see,  every  thing.  She  saw  him  address  Virginia,  the  blend- 
ing profound  respect  with  ardent  admiration,  the  same 
chivalrous  gallantry  that  distinguished  his  manner  when 
first  addressing  herself.  She  saw  him  sink  into  a  seat  by 
the  side  of  Virginia  with  an  air  of  majestic  indolence,  and 
let  his  haughty  eye  rove  over  the  assembled  company  with 
an  expression  of  weary  scorn,  passing  her  form  as  if,  like 
Rachel's  children,  she  "were  not."  And  she  saw  that, 
for  not  one  in  that  room  or  house,  did  he  seem  to  feel  the 
slightest  regard,  except  for  his  cousin  Virginia,  because, 
probably,  she  was  his  cousin  by  his  mother's  side.  And  Vir< 
ginia,  benevolent,  social,  lively,  and  gracious  to  all,  was  gra- 
cious to  him  as  well.  Magdalene  had  never  seen  such  an 
incarnation  of  sovereign  self-sufficing  pride,  as  this  magnifi- 
cent Englishman  presented.  And  it  had  a  strong  attraction 
for  a  nature  like  hers.  And  oh,  prophetic  wisdom  of  the 
heart,  hidden  mystery  of  the  spirit !  how  was  it  that,  over- 
looked by  his  arrogance,  she  yet  knew  herself,  of  all  that 
company,  to  be  the  only  one  who  really  engaged  his  seem- 
ingly idle  thoughts,  as  she  felt  too  certainly  that  he  absorbed 
her  own  ?  What  instinct  was  it  now  that  caused  her  to 
rejoice  that  her  theatrical  projects  had  never  been  broached 
to  any  one,  far  less  put  into  execution  ?  What  instinct  was 
it  that  prompted  her  to  forego  her  purpose  of  assisting  at 
the  dramatic  entertainment  of  the  present  evening  ?  lie 
who  reads  the  secrets  of  the  heart,  knew ;  Magdalene  did 
not  surmise. 

Early  in  the  evening,  dramatic  scenes  from  Shakspeare 


ii20  THE     TWO     SISTEKS. 

were  first  faintly,  then  eagerly  and  vociferously  called  for 
by  the  young  people.  There  was  a  general  rising,  a  gene- 
ral pushing  back  of  chairs,  and  clearing  of  a  space  in  front 
of  the  curtained  arch  that  divided  the  saloon  as  folding- 
doors  do  now  ;  and  Broke  Shields,  who  seemed  to  consider 
himself  Master  of  Ceremonies,  called  out : 

"  Scene,  Macbeth — Act  I.,  Scene  V. — Lady  Macbeth — 
Macbeth  ;"  and,  going  gayly  up  to  Magdalene,  who,  with 
him,  had  been  appointed  to  enact  the  scene,  he  stopped 
short,  put  his  laugh  to  a  violent  death,  assumed  his  tragedy 
face,  and,  with  rnock  gravity,  offered  his  arm  to  lead  Mag- 
dalene to  her  place.  But  gently  and  firmly  Magdalene 
declined  taking  an  active  part  in  the  amusement.  And, 
despite  his  surprise,  his  displeasure,  rising  at  last  to  aston- 
ishment and  indignation,  Magdalene  was  immovable. 

He  left  her,  and,  crest-fallen,  went  up  to  Virginia. 

"  The  vengeance  of  it  is,  that  /am  thrown  out  of  office, 
/should  not  care  at  all  whether  she  played  or  not,  if  1 
could  play.  But  the  diabolism  of  it  is  that,  with  this  ban- 
dit's face  of  mine,  I  can  play  nothing  but  Macbeth,  nor 
thai  without  her,  to  galvanize  me  into  a  little  devilism. 

'Did  time,  place,  and  circumstance  adhere — ' 

5t  would  be  a  relief  to  swear  just  now." 

Virginia  placed  her  hand  upon  his  lips  with  childish 
familiarity,  and  saying  some  soothing,  coaxing  words  to 
comfort  him,  bade  him  call  the  Tempest,  Act  III.,  Scene  I.f 
in  which  she  and  Joseph  would  do  their  best  to  discredit 
themselves,  and  amuse  the  company,  as  Miranda  and  Fer- 
dinand. 

Magdalene  had  seen  all  this,  also ;  she  had  seen  the  bril- 
liant eyes  of  Sir  Clinton  Carey  fixed  on  her  in  approval, 
but  withdrawn  the  instant  they  were  met.  She  saw  now  a 
cloud  overshadow  the  arrogant  splendor  of  his  countenance 


HALLOW     KVE.  221 

as  Virginia,  with  a  quick  apology,  sprang  away  from  his 
side,  flashed  like  a  sunbeam  through  the  room,  and  took 
her  place  on  the  stage,  across  which  Joseph  already  bore 
a  log.  Soon,  however,  his  brow  resumed  its  majestic  im- 
mobility. 

And  Theodore  Hervey  was  at  Magdalene's  side,  looking 
at  her  with  his  large,  dark,  melancholy  eyes,  murmuring  to 
her  in  his  low,  love-tuned  voice — and  calling  her  attention 
to  Virginia,  who,  with  her  beauty  and  grace,  and  some 
genius  for  the  sport,  and  much  gentle  affection  for  the  Fer- 
dinand of  the  evening,  was  getting  through  the  part  with 
great  success. 

Two  things  Magdalene  noticed  during  the  course  of  the 
evening — that  Sir  Clinton  never  seemed  to  see  her  again, 
and  that,  in  leading  Virginia  to  supper,  he  had  said,  in 
reply  to  a  gay  question  of  Virginia's,  and  in  a  voice  of  cold 
rebuke — 

"  Scarcely  an  accomplishment  in  which  I  should  expect 
to  see  my  cousin  Virgina  a  proficient." 

The  next  day,  after  breakfast,  as  it  was  very  fine  weatner. 
a  sail  upon  the  bay  was  proposed  and  unanimously  agreed 
upon,  and  the  whole  party  set  out — Sir  Clinton  escorting 
Virginia,  and  effectually  separating  her  from  other  com- 
panionship. And  Virginia  chatted  and  laughed  in  girlish 
glee,  quite  unmindful  of  his  majestic  displeasure.  Magda- 
lene was  of  the  party,  attended  this  time  by  Joseph,  whose 
earnest  brow  wore  now  such  an  impress  of  sorrow,  that 
Virginia,  seeing  it,  abruptly  left  her  august  relative,  and 
sitting  by  Joseph,  laid  her  hands  on  his,  and  looked  up  in 
his  eyes,  with  oh  !  such  a  look  of  unutterable  tenderness 
and  sympathy  in  her  searching  gaze  of  inquiry  ;  and  Joseph 
took  and  pressed  those  two  little  soft  hands  together,  be- 
tween his  ovrn,  and  returned  that  look  of  profound  and 


222  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

unspeakable  love,  and  they  did  not  think  of  others  in  the 
boat,  and  they  did  not  see  Sir  Clinton  Carey's  eyes  fixed 
with  haughty  surprise  upon  the  act  of  Joseph.  But  Mag- 
dalene saw  this,  and  she  saw  Sir  Clinton  saunter  a.vay  to 
the  other  end  of  the  vessel,  and  join  Judge  Washington, 
and  enter  into  an  earnest  conversation  with  him.  Tlieir 
glances  were  frequently  directed  to  Virginia  and  Joseph,  who 
sat  there  quite  happy,  and  unconscious  of  being  observed. 

The  third  day,  being  very  beautiful,  an  equestrian  excur- 
sion was  proposed,  and  accepted  by  all  the  company. 
Joseph  had  always  been  the  attendant  of  Virginia  in  all  her 
riding  expeditions ;  but  now,  just  before  they  were  about 
to  set  out,  Judge  Washington  called  him,  and  placing  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  affectionately  begged  him  to  remain, 
and  pass  the  forenoon  with  him  in  his  library,  where  he 
very  much  needed  his  assistance  in  the  arrangement  of  some 
business. 

The  fourth  day  was  spent  at  home,  but  Joseph  was  sent 
to  the  county  town  on  business,  and  remained  away  three 
or  four  days,  during  which  Virginia's  high  spirits  gradually 
sunk ;  and  when  Sir  Clinton  Carey  gravely  demanded  the 
reason  of  her  pensiveness,  she  answered,  without  the  least 
reserve, 

"No,  I  am  not  happy.  I  never  was  so  far  from  being  so, 
for  I  never  was  separated  a  day  from  my  brother  before,  and 
now  he  has  been  gone  three  days,  and  I  feel  so  lost  I"  aud 
Ginnie  burst  into  tears,  and  ran  away. 

That  afternoon,  however,  Joseph  returned,  and  brought 
back  Ginriie's  smiles  and  glee.  And  as  the  little  party  of 
girls  was  sitting  around  the  fire  that  night,  talking,  aiuong 
other  things,  of  the  superstitious  observances,  and  the  love- 
spells  of  Halloween,  Ginnie  laughingly  proposed  that  they 
should  each  test  the  efficacy  of  a  potent  charm  to  invoke  a 
night  vision  of  future  destiny,  and  an  image  of  the  future 


T  H  K      VISION     OF     MAGDALENE.         223 

life-long  partner.  This  proposition  was  received  with  accla- 
mation by  all  present,  except  Magdalene  Hawk,  whose 
serious  refusal  drew  from  Ginnie  the  merry  sally, 

"  Do  you  know,  girls,  that  Lena,  who  is  not  afraid  of  any 
thing  in  the  visible  world,  has  a  vague  terror  of  the 
spiritual  ?" 

But  then  Ginnie  put  her  arms  around  Magdalene's  neck, 
and  placed  her  rosy  lips  to  Magdalene's  cheek,  and  pre- 
vailed ;  and  Magdalene,  like  the  others,  would  lift  her  sacri- 
legious hand  to  the  curtain  of  the  Future,  to  draw  it  and 
reveal  its  mysteries. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE     VISION     OF     MAGDALENE. 

"  A  horrid  spectre  rises  to  my  sight 
Close  by  my  side,  and  plain  and  palpable, 
In  all  good  seeking  and  close  circumstance, 
As  man  meets  man." — Joanna  Baillie. 

"  Avaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !  let  the  earth  hide  thee ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold  ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with  \"—S/iakspcare. 

LET  those  who  have  studied  the  "Night  side  of  Nature,' 
and  believe  in  the  "Rochester  Rappings,"  account  for  the 
developments  of  this  chapter — for  I  shall  not  attempt  to — 
though  the  story  is  the  best  authenticated  of  all  the  ghost 
stories  T  ever  heard.  Let  the  unimaginative  set  it  down  at 
once  as  a  "  singular  coincidence."  I  only  insist  upon  it« 
truth. 


224  THE         WO     SISTERS. 

Magdalene  entered  the  breakfast-parlor  with  her  usual 
reserved  expression  of  countenance  and  perfect  repose  of 
manner — but,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  pale.  Virginia 
was  already  there.  It  was  Virginia's  week  to  superintend 
the  housekeeping,  and  she  was  now  arranging  the  breakfast 
table,  and  one  maid-servant  and  a  boy  were  in  attendance 
upon  her.  As  Magdalene  entered,  Virginia  looked  up — by 
an  involuntary  impulse,  the  eyes,  the  thoughts  of  the  two 
young  girls  met — both  smiled,  but  it  was  with  sickly  smiles. 
Virginia  turned  and  dismissed  her  two  assistants.  They 
were  alone,  and  Virginia  was  pale  and  agitated. 

"I — I  had  really  a  very  bad  dream  last  night,  and  it — it 
has  shaken  my  nervous  system  dreadfully.  I — I  am  truly 
ashamed  of  my  nervousness  this  morinng,  Lena,"  faltered 
Virginia,  with  another  faint  smile,  as  she  dropped  into  a 
chair  by  the  corner  of  the  fireplace. 

"  What  was  your  dream  ?"  inquired  Magdalene,  standing 
on  the  rug,  and  resting  her  brow  against  the  mantel-piece. 

"  Oh  I  quite  a  'raw  head  and  bloody  bones'  affair — such 
as  might  be  told  to  frighten  children  with,  and  I  am  nothing 
better  than  a  child,"  she  replied  shuddering. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Magdalene,  in  the  same  even 
tone,  and  with  the  same  moveless  attitude. 

Virginia  paused,  turned  paler,  trembled,  recovered  her- 
self, and  proceeded, 

"  At  first  my  dream  was  fair,  very  fair,  and  all  was  fresh 
and  sweet,  and  bright  and  joyous  in  Summer  landscapes, 
where  I  wandered  with  one  I  10ved  dearly.  I  was,  besides, 
very,  very  happy,  I  know  not  why  or  wherefore,  for  nothing 
is  distinctly  traced  upon  my  memory,  but  the  impression 
remains  very  beautiful.  Then,  suddenly,  as  the  rising  of  a 
thunder-storm  upon  a  Summer's  day,  all  was  instantly 
changed  !  All  was  mystically  dark  and  clouded,  and 
troubled  and  threatening  ;  and  I  was  besides  very,  very 


THE     V  1  S  I  O  X      OF      ii  A  G  D  A  L  K  N  K  .          225 

wretched — I  know  not  why  or  wherefore ;  again,  nothing  is 
distinctly  traced  on  my  memory,  but  the  impression  remains 
very  wretched.  Suddenly,  it  seemed,  the  lightning  flashed, 
the  thunder  rolled,  and  I  sprang  up  in  my  bed  with  my 
heart  violently  palpitating,  to  see — only  my  quiet  chamber 
with  its  blue  hangings,  and  my  dawn  window,  with  the  full 
moon  shining  peacefully  through  it,  and  the  glistening  snow 
on  the  plains  without ;  but  while  I  looked,  the  door  that 
connects  your  chamber  with  mine,  swung  noiselessly  open, 
and  a  tall,  dark  man,  of  exceeding  grace  and  majesty  of 
form,  slowly  advanced  into  the  room,  crossed  the  floor,  and 
in  turning  again  faced  me  !  I  saw  not  his  features  plainly, 
for  oh,  horror  !  a  ghastly  crash  drove  in  his  forehead,  and 
the  blood  in  thick  turbid  streams  crawled  down  his  cheeks 
and  dropped  upon  his  chest.  He  seemed  to  regard  me 
with  profound  sorrow  a  moment  before  he  slowly,  mourn- 
fully disappeared.  A  deadly  faintness  seized  me,  there  was 
numbness  in  all  my  flesh,  a  rushing  sound  in  my  ears,  the 
room  swam  before  me,  and  I  sank  into  insensibility.  When 
1  came  to  myself,  or  rather  when  I  awoke — for  I  consider 
all  this  to  have  beeu  a  dream  of  course — the  night  was  far 
advanced,  and  the  beautiful  dawn  that  I  like  so  to  watch, 
was  slowly  smiling  up  the  horizon — beautiful  awakening 
from  a  frightful  dream  !  But  sweet  Heaven  !  Magdalene  ! 
Magdalene  !  what  ails  you  ?  You  are  as  pale  as  ashes  ! 
You  are  fainting,  Magdalene  !  Oh,  I  must  call  some 
one  !"  exclaimed  Virginia,  as  she  caught  the  falling  form 
of  her  sister,  and  rested  her  in  the  chair.  "  I  must  call 
some  one  !" 

"  No,  no  !  no,  no !  do  not !  There  I  have  recovered, 
you  see !"  said  Magdalene,  dashing  her  hands  twice  or 
thrice  across  her  brow,  and  sitting  up. 

"  Was  it  my  dream  that  frightened  you  so  ?  You  who 
are  not  afraid  of  any  thing  ?:> 


226  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  It  was  no  dream  !     It  was  a  VISION  I" 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  Lena  !" 

"  It  was  a  VISION  !  It  was  a  VISION  !  /,  even  I  saw  the 
same  !  the  same  in  every  leading  feature  !  I,  too,  had-  the 
dream,  first  of  beanty  and  of  glory  ;  but  instead  of  wander- 
ing in  Summer  gardens  with  one  I  loved,  I  stood  with  one 
I  worshiped,  in  a  magnificent  palace,  resplendent  with 
every  thing  that  wealth  and  genius  and  luxury  could  gather, 
to  create  a  terrestrial  paradise  ;  but  beyond  and  above 
this,  I  felt  proud  and  joyous,  with  a  consciousness  of  inborn 
strength,  and  energy,  and  determination,  that  should  com- 
mand  for  me  success,  power,  dominion  !  When,  suddenly, 
all  was  changed  !  not  as  in  your  dream,  by  a  Summer 
thunder-gust,  tempestuous  but  renovating — no  !  but  by  a 
CONFLAGRATION  !  bright,  dazzling,  awfully  sublime  !  illumi- 
nating a'  city  with  terrific  splendor !  but  devastating ! 
destructive  1  desolating  !  leaving  a  desert  of  charred  and 
blackened  ruins  !  and  beside  and  below  all  this,  I  felt  fallen 
and  despairing,  with  the  consciousness  of  an  overwhelming 
defeat.  Then,  with  the  hot  rush  of  a  burning  flame  of  fire  ! 
with  the  terrible  rush  of  a  fiend  about  to  catch  my  soul  to 
perdition  !  came  the  awful  shock  that  thundered  me  from 
sleep  !  I  bounded  I  sprang  up  !  with  my  heart  in  a  death 
pause  !  and  an  icy  sweat  beaded  upon  my  brow  !  to  see  my 
room,  closed  up  and  dark,  but  for  the  lurid  red  light  of 
smoldering  fire  in  the  chimney — to  see  !  the  same  tall, 
dark,  awfully  beautiful  form  with  majestic  but  blood- 
streaming  brow,  and  uplifted  hands,  stride  toward  me,  with 
vengeful  and  denouncing  gestures  !  /  did  not  tremble, 
or  faint,  or  turn  my  gaze  away  !  my  eyes  were  fascinated  to 
gaze  upon  that  horrid  form  until — "  She  paused — every 
vestige  of  color  left  her  face  ;  it  grew  white  as  that  of 
the  dead ;  shudder  after  shudder  convulsed  her  form—- 
she remained  silent. 


THE     VISION     OF     MAGDALENE.         227 

Virginia's  emotions  were  quicker  and  more  frequent,  but 
not  so  deep,  so  powerful,  or  so  lasting,  as  those  of  the 
sterner  Magdalene  ;  she  too  trembled,  but  was  the  first  to 
recover  and  speak. 

"Dear  Mag,  be  composed  ;  such  dreams  are  frightful,  I 
know,  and  they  shake  our  nerves  very  much;  but  as  we 
know  they  are  but  dreams,  we  should  not  permit  them  to 
afl'e(  t  our  minds." 

"  It  was  a  vision — a  PROPHETIC  VISION  !"  said  Magdalene, 
as  though  the  words  had  leaped  from  her  white  lips  without 
her  consent. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  Mag,  you  will  laugh  at  this  next 
week  !  Come,  tell  me  the  rest,  and  then  let  us  forget  our 
folly  and  our  dream." 

"  It  was  a  VISION  !  and  never,  never  can  I  tell  you  how 
that  vision  ended — which  curdles  my  very  blood  with  horror 
but  to  think  of  it !" 

"  You,  my  dear,  dear  Mag !  ray  Indian  princess !  my 
Semiramis !  my  Joan  D'Arc !  you,  my  martial  and  heroic 
Meg  ! — your  hot  blood  congeal  at  the  vision  of  a  spectre  in 
a  dream  I  Why,  even  cowardly  little  me,  who  gets  scared 
if  a  bull-dog  flies  out  at  me,  or  a  horse  runs  away  with  me 
— even  /,  if  the  grim  Enemy  himself  stood  bodily  before 
me,  after  the  first  shock,  and  the  little  reverberating  quiver- 
ing was  over,  I  should  cross  myself,  and  ask  him  what  he 
wanted  1" 

"  Yet  you  fainted." 

"  No,  dear  Lena,  I  dreamed  I  fainted — it  was  all  a  dream.'' 

"  It  was  a  VISION  !  and  you — you  tremble  now  I" 

"  Ah,  dear  Mag,  it  is  only  my  weak  nerves,  you  know. 
My  nerves  are  a  great  deal  weaker  than  yours — for  yours 
are  not  weak  at  all,  they  are  strong,  immovable  —  or  I 
never  saw  them  moved  till  now — and  that  astonishes  me  so  ; 
but  for  me,  if  a  door  claps  I  start  and  tremble,  yet  I  know 


22$  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

there  is  no  danger ;  even  so  now,  I  shudder  at  the  recol- 
lection of  my  dream,  though  I  know  that  it  meant  no- 
thing." 

"  It  was  prophetic!" 

"  It  was  pickled  oysters." 

"  It  was  prophetic ."' 

"  Nay,  then,  dear  Mag,  if  you  speak  so  solemnly,  I  must 
reply  as  gravely.  Seriously,  then,  I  do  not  believe  in 
dreams,  signs,  omens,  apparitions,  or  presentiments ;  and 
neither  nightmare  nor  remarkable  coincidence  can  inspire 
me  with  any  faith  in  them." 

"Yet  wherever  belief  in  God,  or  a  saving  faith  in  the 
Devil  has  been  professed  ;  wherever  the  existence  of  a  sur- 
rounding spiritual  world  of  good  and  of  evil  has  been  felt — 
there  has  been  confessed  more  or  less  faith  in  dreams,  omens, 
auguries,  presentiments,  and  visions." 

"Yes,  and  other  errors,  superstitions,  and  falsehoods." 

"  Faith  in  these  things  is  more  widely  diffused  than  faith 
in  the  Christian  religion  itself!" 

"  So  has  all  evil  been,  alas  !" 

"  I  wish  you  could  shake  my  belief  in  presentiments  and 
visions." 

"  I  would  that  I  could  build  up  your  faith  in  God.  Do 
you  know,  Magdalene,  that  if  I  had  rnarvelousness  enough 
to  believe  in  these  things,  and  to  have  my  mind  disturbed 
by  them,  what  1  would  do  ?" 

"  No — that  is  what  I  should  like  to  know." 

"There  is  one  great  means  to  every  good  end." 

"  Well  ?" 

"One  absolute  sovereign,  God — one  sure  agent,  prayer!'' 

"  Prayer!" 

•:  Yes,  prayer.  There  is  no  evil  so  great  or  so  small — 
from  the  overwhelming  calamity  that  prostrat.es  all  the 
strength  of  mind  and  body,  to  the  absurd  hallucination 


THE     VISION      OF     MAGDALENE.         229 

that  seems  too  trifling  and  ridiculous  to  excite  the  pity  of 
the  most  charitable  friend  ;  no  evil   that  annoys  any  crea- 
ture of  God's,  that  may  not  be  cured,  or  alleviated,  or  sanc- 
tified by  prayer.     Prayer  is  the  universal  remedy." 
"  But  if  one  has  not  faith  to  pray  ?" 
"  Prayer  is  the  remedy  even  for  that  great  evil.     Listen. 

Faith  is  the  gift  of  God,'  'Ask  and  ye  shall  receive.'  If 
one  sits  in  such  darkness  that  they  cannot  see  God,  they 
can  at  least  grope  for  him,  and  the  very  groping  will  dis- 
perse the  shadows,  and  all  will  grow  clear  and  light ;  they 
can  at  least  invoke  the  '  Unknown  God,'  and  him  they  ig- 
norantly  worship  shall  be  declared  to  them ;  and  this  God 
is  the  one  great  treasurer  of  the  Universe,  who  '  possesseth 
all  things,'  and  '  who  giveth  freely  to  those  that  ask  him.' 

Faith  is  the  gift  of  God,'  and  this  gift  once  obtained  should 
be  cherished  as  the  one  great  means  to  every  good  end.  I 
am  not  superstitious,  I  do  not  believe  in  the  presentiments, 
signs  and  omens,  dreams,  visions,  and  apparitions  that 
trouble  some  imaginations  so  much — and,  candidly  and 
seriously  speaking,  neither  do  I  despise  and  reject  them. 
In  all  ages  and  all  nations  of  the  earth  they  have  re- 
ceived some  credence  ;  faith  in  them,  some  faith,  has  per- 
vaded literature,  and  even  religion,  while  philosophy  her- 
self, with  all  her  cool  truths  and  hard  facts  and  subtle  logic, 
has  not  been  able  to  refute  and  overthrow  them.  The 
Scriptures  themselves  say  that  we  war  '  not  with  flesh  and 
blood  (only),  but  with  powers  and  principalities  of  dark- 
ness.' We  know  also  that  the  spiritual  world  lies  all  around 
us,  with  its  benign  or  malignant  influences  acting  upon  our 
souls  and  destinies  ;  we  know  that  some  human  being?,  from 
a  purer  organization,  are  more  susceptible  of  spiritual  influ- 
ences for  good  or  evil  than  others.  If  I  were  superstitious, 
however — if  this  singular  coincidence  of  our  fearful  dream, 
after  having  startled  my  nerves  from  their  proprietv.  cim- 


230  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

tinned  to  oppress  my  mind,  I  would  recollect  that  there  is 
ONE  Supreme  Ruler  of  the  Universe,  Lord  of  Angels  and 
Archangels,  and  Lord  also  of  the  evil  and  revolted  spirits, 
and  I  would  call  on  him  to  avert  the  evil,  and  I  should  feel 
comforted  and  cheered,  knowing  that  I  was  safe  under  the 
shadow  of  my  Father's  omnipotent  throne." 

"  Might — would  He  not  avert  the  evil  without  your 
prayer  ?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so  ! — all  evil  that  would  not  be  ultimate 
— if  any  such  case  can  be;  but  then  He  has  permitted  us  to 
pray  to  him ;  prayer  renews  our  faith,  hope,  and  courage." 

"  Dear  Ginnie,  dear  child,  you  sweet,  solemn  little  seraph  ! 
if  you  cannot  cure,  you  will  at  least  console  me.  Dear, 
gentle  Ginnie,  how  I  love  you  1" 

"And  I  you,  Lena!" 

"Oh,  Ginnie!  It  has  gone,  Ginnie — the  cloud!  Oh, 
Ginnie,  it  is  thus  oftener  with  me  than  you  think.  Some- 
times in  the  midst  of  the  brightest,  warmest  sunshine  of  the 
heart,  a  cloud  suddenly  oversweeps  my  soul,  and  all  is  cold- 
ness and  darkness  and  terror ;  and  sometimes  the  cloud  de- 
scends in  a  shower  of  tears,  and  sometimes  it  is  dispersed  by 
a  sun-burst  of  love,  as  now,  my  Ginnie,  all  is  clear  and 
bright,  and  glad,  and  hopeful." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  two  servants, 
one  bearing  a  waiter,  upon  which  the  hot  coffee  and  choco- 
late steamed,  and  the  other  bringing  a  larger  one,  upon 
which  hot  rolls,  muffins,  Virginia  corn-pone,  and  various 
meats  were  placed.  Ginnie  left  Magdalene's  side  to  super- 
intend the  "  plummet-and-line"  arrangement  of  the  dishes, 
and  then  gave  orders  for  the  second  bell  to  he  rung,  which 
soon  brought  in  all  the  other  members  of  the  family,  as  well 
as  all  their  guests.  The  morning  meal  was  a  very  joyous 
one,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  visitors  were  to  de- 


THE     VISION     OF     MAGDALENE.        231 

part  immediately  after  breakfast.  The  girls  jested  with 
each  other  about  the  fate-spell.  They  would  insist  upon 
hearing  whether  Giunie  had  been  visited  by  a  prophetic 
vision ;  but  Ginnie  laughed  her  gay  silvery  laugh,  and 
shaking  all  her  bright  ringlets,  declared  that  she  had  seen 
the  identical  spectre,  which 

"  Drew  Priam's  curtains  at  the  dead  of  night." 

And  then  the  butterfly  fancies  of  the  volatile  girls  flew  off 
to  something  else;  and  soon  after  they  arose  from  the  table 
and  dispersed  to  prepare  for  their  hasty  rides  home  ;  and 
this  was  the  more  necessary  that  the  sky  was  slightly  over- 
cast, and  a  light  soft  snow,  which  might  increase,  was  be- 
ginning to  fall.  With  many  a  laugh  and  gay  caress,  and 
affectionate  invitation,  they  bade  adieu  to  Virginia.  In 
two  hours  the  house  was  clear  of  guests,  if  we  except  Sir 
Clinton  Carey,  who  seemed  now  an  inmate. 

"  I  do  love  a  snowy  day  once  in  a  while,  so  much  !  It 
keeps  everybody  together  around  the  fire — and  it  gives  one 
an  excuse  for  a  very  rich  and  spicy  soup  for  dinner.  And 
I  particularly  like  the  snowy  day  to-day,  for  it  will  keep 
everybody  away,  and  I  am  going  to  be  so  busy,"  said  Ginnie, 
as  she  laughingly  kissed  her  hand  to  the  fireside  circle  and 
sprang  through  the  door. 

Ginnie  was  eagaged  in  household  cares  all  the  forenoon. 
Dinner  was  to  be  ordered  as  usual.  Then  the  whole  house, 
lately  in  state  for  company,  and  now  vacated  by  the  visitors, 
was  to  be  restored  to  its  normal  condition.  The  guest- 
chambers  were  to  be  visited — the  white  Marseilles  quilts  and 
toilette-covers,  and  the  rich  elaborate  Aurilla  nettings  and 
valances,  were  to  be  taken  off,  aired,  folded  with  dry  lav- 
ender twigs,  and  laid  away  in  the  large  chests  of  the  linen- 
room  ;  and  bright  scarlet  white  and  green  plaid  yarn  counter- 
panes, of  domestic  manufacture,  and  home-made  hanging 


i>32  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

and  covers  were  to  replace  them.  And  then  the  guest- 
chambers  were  to  be  shut  up.  And  then  the  saloon  was  to 
be  visited — furniture  covered,  lamps  and  chandeliers 
shrouded,  pictures  and  mirrors  vailed,  and  the  apartment 
closed.  Finally,  it  was  one  o'clock — their  old-fashioned 
dinner-hour — before  Ginnie  finished  her  task,  drew  off  her 
sheep-skin  mittens,  changed  her  dress,  and  took  her  place 
at  the  head  of  the  dinner-table,  where  the  party  consisted 
only  of  the  Judge,  Sir  Clinton,  Magdalene,  and  Joseph. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE     EVENING     FIRESIDE. 

"  Now  stir  the  fire,  and  clone  the  shutters  fast. 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round  ; 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  nrn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer,  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in." — Coioper. 

THE  lines  above  were  aptly  quoted  by  Ginnie,  as  sne 
busied  herself  with  preparing  the  wainscoted  parlor  for 
the  evening  circle.  She  was  not  quite  alone.  Joseph  was 
with  her,  but  under  the  spell  of  a  gloom  so  profound  as  to 
resist  all  her  gay  and  gentle  efforts  at  enlivening  him. 

"I  like  Covvper  best  of  all  poets,"  she  said,  as  after 
having  adjusted  the  cushions  of  a  settee,  she  settled  herself 
upon  it.  "  I  like  Cowper  best  of  all  poets,  because  he  is  so 
downright  domestic  and  natural ;  he  has  immortalized  fire- 
sides, sofas,  and  tea ;  newspapers,  needles,  and  embroidery 
— every  thing  that  is  cosy,  comfortable,  and  familiar.  You 


THE     EVENING     FIRESIDE.  233 

and  Lena  may  like  Milton,  Byron,  and  Shakspeare,  and 
glory  in  the  wars  of  angels  and  fiends,  with  the  infinity  of 
space  for  a  battle-field,  and  the  throne  of  the  universe  for  a 
stake  ;  or  you  may  revel  amid  night-storms  on  the  Alps — 
and  giaours,  and  corsairs,  and  conflagrations ;  or  you  may 
enjoy  yourselves  in  the  company  of  humpback  assassins, 
female  demons,  and  poor  old  murdered  kings  ;  or  lose  your- 
selves in  any  of  the  grand  visions  of  the  sublime  poets  ;  but 
I,  for  my  part,  love  sensible  Mr.  Cowper,  who  knew  how  to 
appreciate  cozy  parlor  comforts  !" 

Not  a  word  from  Josey,  who  stood  upon  the  rug,  leaning 
his  brow  against  the  chimney-piece,  and  gazing  down  into 
the  fire.  Ginnie  looked  at  him  keenly,  and  resumed  her 
conversation. 

"I  think,  however,  that  with  all  my  favorite's  charms,  he 
was  himself  a  laughable  commentary  on  discontented  peo- 
ple." 

Joseph  feeling  that  this  little  gibe  was  intended  for  his 
benefit,  asked,  without  lifting  up  his  head, 

"  In  what  manner  ?" 

"  Come,  sit  by  me,  Josey,  and  I  will  tell  you.  There — 
that  is  my  dear  brother !  now  smile  away  that  cloud  from 
your  brow  ;  if  you  don't,  I'll  send  for  the  laundry-maid,  and 
make  her  sprinkle  and  iron  the  wrinkles  out  of  your  fore- 
head. So,  now,  this  dear  Mr.  Cowper,  this  first  of  poets, 
in  my  humble  estimation,  notwithstanding  his  delightful 
home,  his  beautiful  garden,  his  cozy  parlor,  and  his  high 
appreciation,  his  exquisite,  his  ineffable  enjoyment  of  such 
comforts  and  luxuries,  and  the  luscious  gusto  with  which  he 
dwells  upon  them  in  his  verse, — this  discontented  Mr.  Cow- 
per delivers  himself  in  this  strain  : 

'  Oh  !  for  a  lodge  in  same  vast  wildf.rness; 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade,'  etc. 

Now,  what  do  you  think  of  thai  for  disconteut  ?     Having 


234  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

no  comfort  or  luxury  to  wish  for  in  his  home,  he  wants  a 
lodge  in  the  wilderness.  For  my  part,  I  think  he  ought  to 
have  been  sent  across  the  desert  as  a  lesson.  And  now 
what  ought  to  be  done  with  my  brother,  who,  despite  all  I 
can  do  to  make  him  happy,  looks  so  sad  ?" 

Joseph  smiled  in  answer,  and  laid  his  hand  affectionately 
on  her  glistening  head ;  but,  oh,  it  was  such  a  pensive 
smile  !  Virginia,  leaning  toward  him,  placed  both  hands 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes  with  a  gaze 
of  such  deep,  unutterable  affection.  Joseph  passed  his  arm 
around  her  waist,  stooped,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  her 
brow,  as  she  dropped  her  head  upon  his  bosom.  So  they 
remained  a  moment,  although  the  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps  were  heard,  and  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  followed  by 
the  Judge,  entered  the  parlor.  Slowly  then  their  arras  un- 
locked, and  they  separated. 

"  Where  is  Magdalene  ?"  inquired  the  deep,  rich  tones 
of  the  Judge,  as  he  dropped  into  his  large,  easy  chair. 

He  was  answered  by  the  entrance  of  Magdalene  herself. 
Sir  Clinton  had  taken  the  seat  on  the  sofa  by  the  side  of 
Virginia,  vacated  by  Joseph,  who  remained  standing  by 
the  centre-table. 

Virginia  had  a  plan  for  that  evening's  amusement.  She 
wished,  at  the  first  favorable  moment,  to  ask  Magdalene  to 
read,  for  the  entertainment  of  the  company,  a  portion  of 
the  new  poem  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Marmion.  This  she 
desired  for  two  purposes :  to  bring  out  the  fine  elocution  of 
her  sister,  and  to  enforce  on  the  latter  the  argument  of  the 
morning's  homily  by  the  moral  of  the  evening's  entertain- 
ment. 

So,  after  a  little  chat  about  the  heavy  fall  of  snow,  etc., 
taking  advantage  of  the  first  dead  pause,  Virginia  pro- 
posed the  reading  of  a  portion  of  Marmion,  and  selected 
the  Vision  of  Dun  Eden's  Cross.  The  proposition  was 


THE     EVENING     FIRESIDE.  235 

readily  acceded  to  by  the  little  circle,  and  Magdalene  in- 
vited  to  become  the  reader.  Magdalene  took  the  book  with 
an  involuntary  air  of  proud  indolence,  and  commenced  read- 
ing ;  but  soon  the  high,  heroic  tone  of  the  sentiment,  the 
martial  measure  of  the  rythm  aroused  her  enthusiasm,  and 
forgetting  pride  and  scorn,  forgetting  self  and  others,  she 
threw  her  whole  soul,  with  all  its  strength,  fire,  and  de- 
Btructiveness  into  the  subject. 

When  she  had  done  reading,  the  book  dropped  gently 
on  her  lap,  and  she  remained  still  absorbed,  lost  in  the 
vision,  unconscious  of  the  observation  of  those  around  her, 
unconscious  that  the  look  of  one  who  had  scarcely  deigned 
to  see  her  since  their  first  meeting  was  fixed  with  interest 
upon  her.  For  an  instant  only  she  remained  thus,  for 
Magdalene  had  the  faculty  of  sure  if  not  quick  self-recovery. 

"Now  tell  us,  Virginia,"  said  the  Judge,  "why  you 
chose  that,  by  no  means  the  best  part  of  the  poem  ?"  asked 
the  Judge,  turning  to  Ginnie. 

"  Why,  for  this  reason,  father :  because  I  liked  it  best. 
I  have  no  gift  for  grandeur ;  but  I  do  like  something  new 
and  hopeful,  like  De  Wilton's  onslaught  upon  predestined 
fate  just  there.  It  is  quite  different  from  any  thing  else  we 
read  in  that  line.  I  do  think  that,  generally,  poets,  drama- 
tists, novelists,  and  tale-writers,  often  quite  thoughtlessly 
cause  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  misery  to  such  of  their 
readers  as  may  be  naturally  given  to  superstition." 

"  How,  Virginia  ?"  inquired  the  Judge,  who  loved  to 
hear  the  little  Mentor  talk,  when  she  so  far  forgot  herself 
as  to  do  it. 

"  How,  Virginia  ?"  also  inquired  Joseph,  earnestly. 

"  Why,  by  seizing  the  dark  superstitions  of  the  earth 
for  artistic  purposes,  and  endowing  them  with  infallibility." 

"  As,  for  instance  ?" 

"  Ju  novels,  poems,  plays,  all  omeus,  dreams,  visions,  ore- 


236  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

sentiments,  etc.,  are  prophetic,  and  all  prophecies  fulfilled ; 
thus  these  superstitions,  endorsed  by  the  authority  of  great 
minds,  impress  very  forcibly  feeble  ones,  or  even  strong 
ones  that  happen  to  be  very  imaginative,  and  seriously 
affect  their  happiness.  I  know  it  from  myself,  and  from 
one  who  loves  me  ;  from  myself,  because  I  was  from  novels 
and  poems  impressed  with  the  feeling  rather  than  the 
opinion  that  presentiments  had  to  be  fulfilled,  until  real 
life  taught  me  that  no  presentiment  of  mine  ever  meant 
any  thing,  as  I  ne,ver  had  one  justified  by  the  event  in  my 
life." 

"  Had  you  ever  a  presentiment,  Virginia  ?"  asked  the 
Judge,  smiling. 

"  Oh  yes,  father !" 

"  Oh !  let's  hear  it,"  said  Sir  Clinton. 

"Why,  even  before  the  epidemic  reached  our  plantation,  I 
had  a  painful  secret  conviction,  that  if  it  should  visit  us,  I 
myself,  should  be  among  its  first  victims.  I  felt  as  nearly 
convinced,  in  my  own  mind,  as  any  one  could  be  of  an 
error,  and  above  all,  I  thought  that  this  being  a  presenti- 
ment, was  obliged  to  be  fulfilled.  I  even  made  a  little 
memorandum  of  my  small  personal  effects,  with  the  names 
of  those  to  whom  I  wished  to  leave  them,  and  locked  it  up 
in  ray  writing-desk.  Nevertheless  though  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  die,  I  did  not  wish  to,  and  I  recollected  that  our 
Lord  was  above  every  thing,  and  could  reverse  fate,  even 
fore-ordained  fate,  and  so  I  prayed  that  I  might  not  die, 
but  that  I  might  live  the  handmaiden  of  the  Lord  on  earth 
— and  so  I  did  live,  as  yon  see.  Besides,  I  have  had  other 
presentiments,  and  forebodings,  and  dreams,  and  evil  omens, 
and  never,  in  any  instance,  had  them  justified  by  what  fol- 
lowed— so,  at  last,  life  has  delivered  me  from  the  power  of 
the  dark  superstitions  into  which  poetry  and  romance  had 
led  me.  Bu*  I  do  wonder,  among  the  many  objectious, 


THE     EVENING     FIRESIDE.  237 

rational  and  irrational,  that  are  made  to  romances,  this 
never  should  have  been  advanced  !" 

"  What  do  you  say  to  all  this,  my  Queen  of  Night  ?" 
inquired  the  Judge,  turning  smilingly  to  Magdalene. 

"I  think  that  the  prophetic  Vision  of  Dun  Eden's  Cross 
was  very  fearfully  fulfilled  on  the  fatal  field  of  Flodden." 

"  So  it  was,  in  every  instance,  except — mark  you,  Mag- 
dalene— except  in  case  of  the  faithful  De  Wilton,  who,  when 
the  phantom  herald 

'Thundered  forth  a  roll  of  names.' 

Ending  with 

'  De  Wilton  erst  of  Aberlay,' 

citing  them  to  appear  before  the  final  tribunal ;  De  Wilton 
replies, 

'  Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny, 
And  thine  infernal  lord  defy, 
Appealing  me  to  One  on  High 
Who  burst  the  sinner's  chain.' 

Now  mark  the  result,  Magdalene  : 

'At  that  dread  accent,  vrith  a  scream, 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream  ; 
The  summoner  was  gone  /' 

The  moral  of  all  of  whi«h  is,  Meg,  that  the  Lord  is  above 
the  fiend." 

"  Which  means,"  smiled  the  Judge,  patting  Ginnie's 
glistening  red  hair,  "that  the  Lord's  above  the  fiend,  an 
observation  equally  profound  and  original,  my  little 
moralizer !" 

"  Ah,  father,  at  least,  some  folks  have  to  be  reminded  of 
some  of  its  applications  every  day,"  replied  Ginnie,  shak- 
ing the  aforesaid  red  head  at  her  father. 

Conversation  now  took  a  lighter  tone,  and  became  gen- 
eral. Virginia  was  the  life  principle  of  that  little  group 


238  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

around  the  tire,  as  she  was  of  every  circle,  great  or  small,  in 
which  she  chanced  to  be.  Magdalene  sat  apart,  half  iu 
shadow,  and  in  her  usual  attitude  of  calm  dignity,  very 
still,  yet  with  the  sense  of  a  new  life,  half  of  pain,  half  of 
pleasure,  stirring  in  her  heart.  The  little  circle  separated 
at  an  early  hour. 

Sir  Clinton  Carey  remained  at  Prospect  Hall  during  the 
next  two  months.  He  became  the  constant  companion,  or 
rather  the  vigilant  supervisor  and  protector  of  Virginia,  for 
his  manner  toward  our  ardent  and  volatile  child  was  rather 
magisterial  and  paternal  for  so  young  a  gentleman — so  that 
the  brightness,  freshness,  and  elasticity  of  our  Ginriie,  some- 
times faded,  withered  and  drooped  under  the  shadow  of  his 
wing — and  then  again  with  a  light  spring  of  her  tiny  foot 
and  stately  head,  she  would  escape  from  him  and  run,  romp, 
or  rant  by  the  hour.  Joseph  1  superceded,  lonely  Joseph, 
fell  deeper  into  trouble  every  day,  and  frequently  when  the 
gloom  was  deepest  and  darkest  on  his  brow,  Ginnie,  no 
matter  who  might  be  present,  would  go  to  him,  stand  by 
him,  place  her  hands  upon  his  shoulder,  and  lean  her  bright 
head  down  upon  him  with  such  an  air  of  affection,  reliance, 
fidelity  1  Joseph,  at  such  times,  would  occasionally  pass 
his  arm  around  her  and  press  her  to  his  bosom,  but  more 
frequently — always  when  others  were  present,  he  would 
gently  put  her  from  him,  and  leave  the  room.  Magdalene ! 
Slowly,  strongly,  as  every  other  passion  or  emotion  had 
ever  arisen  in  her  soul,  flowed  in  the  mighty  tide  of  a  first 
and  all  absorbing  love. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

JOSEPH. 

"Of  manners  gentle,  of  affections  mild, 
In  wisdom  man,  in  innocence  a  child."— Pop*. 

JOSEPH  CAREY  confined  himself  almost  exclusively  to  the 
library,  perseveringly  endeavoring  to  concentrate  all  the 
faculties  of  his  mind  upon  the  study  of  the  law.  "Bringing 
to  the  task  an  intellect  of  the  highest  order,  having  for  a 
master  so  eminent  a  lawyer  as  Judge  Washington,  his 
prospects  for  success  in  his  profession  were  very  great. 
Perhaps  had  he  felt  free  to  choose,  the  court-house  would 
never  have  been  the  chosen  place  of  his  labor.  Perhaps 
the  church  might  have  been  more  congenial  to  his  tempera- 
ment. But  his  patron  had  suggested  the  law,  and  at  once 
Joseph  perceived  that  this  was  the  most  convenient  profes- 
sion that  the  Judge  could  bestow  upon  him,  since  it  caused 
no  expense  of  college  education,  boarding,  books,  etc.  It 
required  nothing  but  library  room,  with  a  little  occasional 
verbal  teaching  on  the  part  of  his  benefactor,  while,  the 
good  conferred  upon  himself  at  so  little  cost  was  immense. 
Besides,  this  plan  gave  Joseph  the  opportunity  of  mani- 
festing his  gratitude  by  performing  for  the  Judge  the  duties 
of  private  secretary,  and  out-door  man  of  business.  Last 
—oh  !  not  least,  this  arrangement  retained  Joseph  still 
under  the  roof  with  Virginia — the  fondly,  madly,  hopelessly 
beloved ! 

Joseph's  relations  to  his  patron,  from  earliest  childhood, 
had  been  of  such  a  filial  character,  that  it  never  occurred 

(230) 


240  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

to  the  poor  boy  to  look  upon  himself  as  a  nameless  and 
penniless  dependent.  His  feelings  toward  Virginia  had 
been  from  their  earliest  infancy  of  so  paternal  a  nature,  that 
the  vast  distance  between  their  social  positions,  did  not 
suggest  itself  to  his  mind  until  the  era  of  manhood  revealed 
to  him  that  the  very  vital  fibres  of  his  heart  were  indissolubly 
eternally,  fatally  entwined  with  those  of  the  partner  of  his 
cradle,  the  companion  of  his  childhood,  the  pure  love  of 
his  youth,  Virginia — the  enthusiasm,  the  worship,  the  mad- 
ness, yea,  the  madness  of  his  maturity.  Now  he  felt  that 
for  her  was  a  brighter,  higher  destiny  than  any  he  could 
achieve  for  her,  while  for  him  remained — no  matter  what, 
no  matter  what — so  that  she  were  happy.  Now  his  task 
was  plain,  to  cut  down  and  root  up  feelings  that  had  dared 
to  germinate  and  spring  in  his  heart — yes,  though  that 
lacerated  heart  should  bleed  to  death  from  the  wounds. 
Virginia  must  not  even  suspect  their  existence.  Virginia 
was  a  few  years  younger  than  himself;  she  had  not  as  yet 
dreamed  of  other  love  than  the  deep,  still  love  of  father, 
sister,  brother ;  aud  she  must  never  know  of  another  from  him. 
When  Virgitiia,  troubled  by  his  troubled  countenance,  would 
come  and  stand  by  his  side,  and  pass  her  hand  around  his 
neck,  and  lay  her  head  against  him,  so  gently,  so  tenderly, 
her  innocent  caress  would  send  a  shock  of  mingled  ecstacy 
and  agony  through  every  nerve  and  vein  to  his  heart's  core, 
causing  his  heart  to  pause,  his  brain  to  reel,  his  eyes  to 
dim,  while  the  thought,  the  feeling  of  a  perfect  joy  near, 
but  impossible,  would  nearly  madden  him.  Even  then,  "in 
the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and  whirlwind  of  passion,"  he 
exercised  a  matchless  constancy  and  self-command.  Yes, 
he  even  calmly  and  tenderly  returned  those  pure  caresses ; 
f>r,  with  the  instinct  of  true  affection,  he  felt  that  any 
change,  any  chilling  of  his  manner  toward  her,  would,  by 
the  very  sorrow  it  should  cause  her,  tend  to  develop  that 


JOSEPH.  241 

new,  strange  phase  of  love,  that  anguish  which  tortured 
him,  but  which  she  must  not  know.  He  immured  himself 
in  the  library  among  the  law  books,  where  he  struggled 
with  himself,  prayed  and  tried  to  study.  And  none  but  the 
All-seeing  Eye  beheld  the  written  agony  of  the  brow,  the 
struggle,  the  prayer  or  the  motive.  But  Virginia  conld  not 
enjoy  herself  without  her  brother — she  told  everybody  so — 
and  often  when  a  little  party  of  pleasure  was  planned,  she 
would  run  up  into  the  library  to  draw  him  from  his  books. 
To  her  invitations  he  would  reply  something  like  this  : 

"  You  know,  dear,  that  I  cannot  leave  my  studies  now. 
I  must  read  industriously.  My  day  of  grace  is  almost  over. 
I  must  stand  my  examination  this  winter." 

"  But  oh,  Joseph,  you  look  so  pale,  so  thin,  so  weary 
You  are  killing  yourself,  Joseph,  with  all  this  plodding." 

A  smile,  wan  as  moonlight,  illumined  his  spiritual  coun- 
tenance as  he  replied  by  a  question  : 

"What  was  that  line  so  often  set  you  for  a  copy  in  your 
school-days,  Virginia  ?" 

"Oh,  yes:  'Perseverance  commands  success.'  Dear 
Joseph  used  to  set  it  for  me  because  I  was  such  a  flighty, 
volatile  little  elf,  flying  from  one  thing  to  another,  and 
sticking  to  nothing  long." 

"  And  do  you  know  what  perseverance  means  ?" 

"  Why,  persistence ;  I  cannot  think  of  any  other  syno- 
nyme  now." 

"  I  do  not  want  the  synonyme,  but  that  for  which  the  syno- 
nymes  stand.  '  Perseverance,'  '  persistence,'  are  no  holiday 
w;)rds  like  '  success,'  '  honor,' '  fame,' '  glory.'  Perseverance, 
BO  soft  and  smooth  upon  our  tongues,  so  hard  and  rough  in 
our  lives,  Virginia.  Perseverance  means — with  steady,  pa- 
tieut  unf  inching,  untiring  labor  and  efforts,  day  and  night, 
summer  and  winter,  in  sunshine  and  in  clouds,  in  prosperity 
and  adversity,  with  the  sympathy  of  appreciating  friends  and 


24:2  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

in  the  solitude  of  a  misunderstood  heart,  in  health  and  in 
sickness,  through  good  report  and  through  evil  report,  in 
encouragement  and  in  discouragement,  in  fruition  or  in 
blight,  in  ease  or  in  pain,  in  competence  or  in  penury,  in 
weakness  and  in  strength,  in  shame  or  in  glory  —  to  pursue 

ONE  OBJECT." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"  Success,  Ginnie  !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with 
"EXCELSIOR"  sparkling  all  over  his  face. 

"No,  not  always,  not  often,  very  seldom,  indeed.  Ah, 
it  is  too  true.  We  see  it  in  the  lives  of  all  the  great  and 
good  who  have  lived  and  suffered,  toiled  and  persevered, 


"  They  were  not  good  and  great  enough,  or  else,  despite 
onr  shortness  of  sight,  and  misapprehension  of  facts,  and 
haste  of  judgment,  they  have  not  failed.  No,  Ginnie,  noi 
failed  1  by  all  the  Christian  promises  !  —  by  eternal  justice, 
they  have  not!  —  Success,  earthly  success  even,  is  for  thos* 
energetic  enough  to  work  for  it,  hopeful  enough  to  look  foi 
it,  patient  enough  to  wait  for  it,  brave  enough  to  seize  it, 
strong  enough  to  hold  it  !" 

"But  those  others  —  those  great  and  good  souls  who  have 
lived,  and  labored,  and  persevered,  and  —  died,  with  their 
work  unaccomplished,"  said  Ginnie,  looking  deep  into  his 
eyes,  "those  others  that  make  me  sad,  Joseph  ;  how  useless 
their  endeavor  !  —  how  hopeless  !  they  have  fallen  and  died 
at  their  task,  and  left  it  unfinished  !" 

"  Not  so  !  not  so  !  if  his  work  was  great  and  good  in  its 
object,  he  has  taken  it  to  heaven  to  complete  !  Not  so  !  for 
in  the  long  struggle  —  though  the  physical  energies  may  be 
worn  out,  and  the  earthly  success  utterly  lost,  —  yet,  in  the 
struggle,  the  soul  has  gained  great  strength,  great  energy, 
erreat  fortitude,  a  property  of  which  she  cannot  be  deprived 
by  caprice,  the  injustice,  or  the  persecution  of  the  world,  a 


JOSEPH.  Li3 

good  which  has  become  a  component  part  of  herself, — tlial 
she  takes  into  eternity  with  her — that  is  immortal — and  that, 
dearest  Virginia,  is  the  moral  of  all  the  'bootless  endeavor' 
that  so  tries  your  faith  in  this  world — and  tries  it  only 
because  you  see  the  temporal  blight  and  not  the  eternal 
bloom. — The  seed  sown  here  in  tears,  perishes ! — but  the 
germ  springs,  and  the  harvest  is  reaped  in  eternity  1  We 
have  the  promises,  Virginia ;  sometimes  they  seem  to  fail, 
but  it  is  only  in  seeming.  The  promises  are  kept  when  ice 
are  faithful — we  know  that  they  are,  though  we  may  not  set 
7iow*  How  do  we  know,  for  instance,  that  a  philanthropist, 
worn  out  with  his  labor  of  love,  and  passed  away  with  half 
his  good  and  great  purposes  unaccomplished,  may  not  be 
permitted  to  inspire  the  mind  of  some  faithful,  strong,  living 
man,  who  is  fit  for  his  work,  albeit  he  may  be  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  source  of  his  new  and  glorious  thoughts  ?" 

"That  is  very  fanciful." 

"But  not  improbable  or  unchristian.  Ah  ! — Virginia,  I 
often  feel  like  ascribing  all  my  purest  and  highest  thoughts 
to  the  inspirations  of  a  loving  spirit,  who  passed  away  with 
her  blessed  work  unfinished  here,  but  to  be  accomplished 
from  above  !" 

"My  mother?"  said  Virginia,  as,  with  her  hands  clasped 
on  Joseph's  knee,  she  sat  and  looked  up  wistfully  into 
Joseph's  face. 

A  long  time  she  sat,  while  he  rested  his  burning  brow 
upon  his  hand,  and  looked  down  on  her.  At  last  she  said, 

"But  to  what  tends  all  our  serious  discourse,  Jceeph  ?  \ 
only  came  to  coax  you  to  ride  with  me." 

"  And  I,  dearest  Ginnie,  did  not  mean  to  speak  of  any 
more  exalted  object  of  perseverance  than  my  common-place 
calling  of  the  law.  I  was  led  up  higher,  involuntarily. 
Now,  coming  down  again,  I  say  that  if  you  wish  to  see 
your  brother  succeed  in  his  profession,  you  must  leave  him 


244  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

in  his  study  chair,  and  never  tempt  him  forth.  The  weari 
ness  of  study  here,  and  the  bright  sunshine  and  fresh  air 
without,  is  temptation  enough,  without  your  pleading, 
Virginia.  And  if  you  speak,  it  must  be  to  exhort  me  to 
stay  here." 

After  such  a  conversation  as  this,  Virginia,  thinking  that 
she  was  interrupting  his  studies,  would  sigh,  get  up,  press 
his  head  an  instant  against  her  bosom,  and  steal  away  from 
the  room,  feeling  very,  very  lonesome.  And  Joseph,  left 
alone,  he  would  drop  his  head  upon  his  hands,  while  shudder 
after  shudder  would  shake  his  frame,  as  he  wrestled  wfth  his 
own  spirit,  with  his  great  temptation.  How  many  there 
are,  oh  God  !  who  thus  struggle,  and  suffer,  and  pray — in 
Bolitude,  in  silence — with  no  eye  but  Thine  to  read  the 
"  written  agony"  of  the  brow — no  ear  but  Thine  to  hear  the 
sob  that  has  riven  the  heart  in  its  outburst,  no  hand  but 
Thine  to  raise,  and  heal,  and  comfort !  These  are  Thine 
own.  These  are  they  to  whose  desolated  spirits  Thou 
comest.  To  whom,  in  the  night  season  of  their  despair, 
Thou  whisperest, — "  My  son,  my  daughter,  be  of  good  cheer ! 
— sorrow  endureth  but  for  a  night — the  night  of  thy  pro- 
bation— joy  cometh  with  the  morrow — the  morning  of  thy 
triumph  over  temptation — the  morning  of  thy  regener- 
ation!" 

One  morning,  a  beating,  driving  rain  kept  all  the  family 
within  doors,  and  immediately  after  breakfast,  and  after  a 
last  hasty  glance  through  the  windows  at  the  dark  descend- 
ing flood,  they  all  assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  The 
party  gathered  around  the  fire  consisted  of  Judge  Wash- 
ington, Sir  Clinton  Carey,  Virginia,  Magdalene,  and  Joseph, 
whom  Ginnie  insisted  should  abandon  his  books  for  the 
public  good  that  day.  No  member  of  the  family  could  be 
Hpared  on  that  dark,  rainy  day,  she  said.  Nor  should  any 


JOSEPH.  245 

one  look  gloomy.  The  sky  had  monopolized  all  the  gloom. 
They  and  the  fire  must  be  bright.  And  bright  would 
everything  have  been  if  Qinnie  could  have  lighted  every- 
body up — but — Sir  Clinton  challenged  his  cousin  to  a  game 
of  chess,  and  so,  with  the  best  grace  she  could  command, 
she  sat  down  to  the  table  with  him.  Judge  Washington 
was  occupied  with  opening  his  mail  and  looking  over 
papers  and  letters.  Magdalene  sat  at  a  corner-stand  me- 
chanically drawing  pencil-sketches,  but  really  "  shadowed 
by  her  dream."  Aye,  Magdalene,  dream  on  1  live  on  in 
your  maniac's  paradise,  drawing  a  keen  and  stealthy  joy 
from  the  eyes  that  sometimes  meet  your  own  with  such  a 
word  of  meaning — dream  on  !  wonder,  hope,  BELIEVE  ON  ! 
for  if  an  angel  from  Heaven  warned  you  not  to  do  so,  his 
voice  would  be  disregarded. 

Joseph  first  struggled  with  the  mood  of  melancholy  that 
was  coming  upon  him,  and  then  tried  to  mask  it  under  a 
cheerful  countenance.  In  vain  :  his  heart  was  sinking  like 
a  leaden  weight,  and  drawing  down  all  the  muscles  of  his 
countenance  ;  and  if  he  tried  to  smile  at  any  gay  sally  that 
Ginnie  would  launch  at  him  to  raise  his  spirits,  it  would  be 
such  a  ghastly  mockery  of  a  smile  !  Ginnie  played  very 
boldly  this  morning,  making  "most  admirc-d  disorder." 
Joseph  longed  for  solitude,  and  at  length  he  stepped  away 
to  his  sanctuary,  unobserved,  he  supposed,  but  it  was  not 
so  ;  Judge  Washington  had  noticed  him,  and  Virginia,  in 
five  minutes  from  the  time  he  had  left  the  drawing-room, 
having  finished  her  game  of  chess,  arose  and  followed  him. 

She  opened  the  library  door  and  found  him  in  an  attitude 
of  the  profoundest  grief.  She  entered  so  softly  that  he  was 
only  made  aware  of  her  presence  by  her  passing  her  arms 
gently  around  his  neck,  and  drawing  his  head  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Joseph,  my  dear  brother,  my  only  brother,  what  is  the 
matter?" 
15 


246  THE     TWO     S  J  S  T  E  R  S 

He  could  not  speak  a  falsehood,  nor  refuse  to  answer  her 
— be  replied : 

"  I  am  not  very  well,  Ginnie." 

"  I  know  you  are  not  well,  even  in  body  ;  but  there  is 
noraething  worse  than  that,  Joseph.  You  are  in  deep  trou- 
ble. Oh,  tell  me,  dear  old  playnu.to,  why  can  we  not  tell 
each  other  every  thing,  as  we  used  to  do  on  the  glistening 
sandy  beach  of  the  Sunny  Isle  ?  It  cannot  be  my  cousin 
Clinton's  supercilious  behavior,  or  his  monopoly  of  ly 
society  ?  Oh  no,  for  ray  proud  English  cousin  can  never 
rival  my  dear  brother  in  my  esteem  or  affection,  Joseph ; 
and  if  I  show  him  attentions,  and  accept  attentions  from 
him,  it  is  only  through  the  politeness  and  hospitality  due 
to  our  guest;  and,  indeed,  I  fear  that  in  his  especial  case  I 
fall  far  short  in  the  performance  of  these  rites,  for  I  so 
much  dislike  his  supercilious  manners ;  and  I  ask  myself 
testily,  '  Who  is  he,  indeed,  but  a  beggared  and  expatriated 
Englishman,  with  nothing  but  his  barren  title,  his  pride, 
and  his  heterodoxy  ;  expatriated  by  his  own  ultra  repub- 
lican opinions,  and,  I  very  much  suspect,  by  his  religious 
and  political  skepticism  generally,  which  must  cut  him  off 
from  advancement  in  his  own  country.'  Grandfather  does 
not  see  all ;  he  sees  only  just  so  much  of  his  Liberalism  as 
he  permits  to  be  visible,  and  so  far  grandfather  heartily 
agrees  with  him  and  approves  him.  Magdalene  does  not 
care  for  it.  Magdalene  is  carried  captive  by  the  dark  ma- 
jestic melo-dramatic  presence,  and  the  splendid  talents  and 
brilliant  conversational  powers  of  the  man,  and  thinks  him 
a  very  magnificent  fellow  altogether.  But  /  see  it  I  feel 
it.  It  requires  a  red-haired  girl  like  me  to  do  it.  He  doi-s 
not  reverence  any  thing  that  we  reverence,  Josey.  lie 
holds  nothing  sacred  that  gives  us  support  and  shelter, 
Josey.  Always  in  his  presence  I  am  troubled  by  emotions 
of  fear  for  myself  and  those  I  love,  from  his  influence  or 


JOSEPH.  247 

through  his  agency,  and  a  vague  resentment  toward  him, 
striving  with  a  deep  compassion  for  him.  Believe  me,  I 
have  him  aright;  and  if  grandfather  does  not  see  the  whole 
of  this,  it  is  because  he  is  not  always  with  Clinton  as  /sun, 
in  his  free  and  easy  moments,  or  those  moments  in  which 
he  approaches  nearest  to  freedom  and  ease." 

During  all  this  time  Joseph  let  her  talk  on,  well  pleased 
that  she  should  talk  and  save  him  the  embarrassment  of 
further  home-questions.  But  Virginia  had  not  lost  the 
thread  of  her  discourse  :  she  resumed  it : 

"  So  you  see,  Joseph,  that  I  really  do  not  esteem  this 
man ;  and  indeed,  my  fear  is,  that  my  attentions  to  this 
man,  slight  and  imperfect  as  they  are,  and  necessary  as 
they  are,  savor  of  hypocrisy.  But  is  it  not  his  monoply  of 
me  that  troubles  you  ?" 

"  No,  dearest  Virginia,  it  is  not  indeed.  Be  at  ease, 
dear  sister,  no  misfortune  has  befallen  me,  nor  do  I  antici- 
pate any." 

"  Ah,  you  say  that,  but  look  at  your  haggard  face  I  Jo- 
seph, I  wish  you  would  speak  to  me  freely.  I  deserve  it 
of  you,  indeed  I  do,"  she  said,  again  passing  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  drawing  his  head  down  upon  her 
bosom. 

Her  tears  were  falling,  and  her  face  was  bowed  over  him, 
and  his  arm  encircled  <her,  and  so  they  remained  a  minute  ; 
when  Joseph,  first  recovering  himself,  put  her  gently  off, 
and  looked  up — to  behold  Judge  Washington  standing 
over  them.  Surprise,  regret,  but  no  anger  was  visible  upon 
his  venerable  face.  Joseph  was  composed  :  and  as  for  Vir- 
ginia, she  was  not  the  least  startled  by  the  sudden  appa- 
rition of  her  grandfather. 

"Virginia,"  he  said,  "the  cook  wants  to  consult  you,  my 
love.  Order  something  spicy  for  dinner,  dear,  for  it  is 
very  damp  and  cold." 


24:8  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Grandfather,  Joseph  is  in  trouble  ;  get  Joseph  to  con- 
fide in  you,  will  you  ?"  she  said,  pressing  Joseph's  hand 
before  she  left  the  room. 

The  Judge  sank  heavily  into  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  table,  and  leaning  upon  it,  said : 

"  Joseph,  there  is  not,  I  am  sure,  a  feeling  in  that  heart 
of  thine,  or  a  thought  in  that  brain  of  thine,  of  which  thou 
need'st  be  afraid  or  ashamed  to  speak.  Joseph,  canst  thou 
confide  in  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  can  confide  in  you,  mine  honored  patron  ;  and 
my  confidence  will  also  be  a  confession.  Judge  Washing- 
ton, I  love  Virginia  with  a  deeper  and  a  fiercer  love  than 
that  of  a  brother.  I  have  never  permitted  her  to  see  it. 
She  does  not  surmise  it — she  never  shall  from  me  !" 

"No.  That  is  right.  You  know  you  can  never  marry 
Virginia,  Joseph.  Let  me  speak  to  you  with  the  utmost 
candor,  my  young  friend.  Virginia  Carey  Washington  re- 
presents in  herself  two  of  the  largest  estates  in  Eastern 
Virginia.  Sir  Clinton  Carey  is  the  present  head  of  the 
elder  branch  of  the  Carey  family.  It  was  ever  the  wish  of 
the  late  Colonel  Carey  to  unite  the  two  branches  of  his 
house  again.  Sir  Clinton  Carey  is  in  every  respect  a  suit- 
able match  for  Miss  Washington,  and  he  is  here  with  my  full 
consent  and  approbation  to  win  the  heart  and  hand  of 
Virginia,  if  possible.  I  have  said  nothing  of  this  to  any 
one,  not  even  to  Virginia,  lest  by  seeming  to  direct  lv:r 
choice  thither,  I  should  prejudice  her  against  her  suitor.  I 
shall  never  constrain  the  will  of  my  granddaughter  in  this 
respect,  though  I  confess  that  I  heartily  desire  the  marriage 
— but  however  that  plan  may  eventuate,  Joseph,  my  dear 
boy,  it  is  but  in  mercy  to  yo.u,  while  with  great  pain  to  my 
self,  that  I  tell  you  that  you  must  abandon  the  though!  of 
ever,  under  any  possible  circumstances,  possessing  the  hand 
of  Miss  Washington." 


JOSEPH.  249 

"  Believe  me.  sir,  I  never  gave  an  instant's  harbor  to  any 
such  mad  hope." 

"  She  loves  you  more  tenderly  than  she  loves  any  one 
else  on  earth,  Joseph,  but  it  is  with  the  fond  affection  of  a 
sister  for  an  only  brother.  The  nature  of  that  affection  must 
not,  as  it  might — be  chanyed." 

"I  know  it,  sir — direct  me — I  am  at  your  disposal." 

"  In  a  few  days,  Joseph,  we  go  to  Richmond,  to  be  m 
time  for  the  meeting  of  the  Legislature,  and  the  sitting  of 
the  court — I  wish,  also,  to  congratulate  my  old  friend,  Gov- 
ernor *MouiHjoy,  on  his  election,  and  for  an  especial 
reason  to  present  my  granddaughter  and  her  friend  at  his 
opening  levee.  You  will  of  course  go  with  us,  Joseph. 
You  will  pass  your  examination  triumphantly,  I  doubt  not. 
You  will  be  admitted  to  the  bar,  where  you  shall  have  my 
best  interest  to  push  you  on.  But  on  returning  with  my 
family  to  Sunny  Isle,  whither  I  shall  go  iu  the  spring — I 
shall  leave  you  in  Richmond  There,  Joseph,  you  must 
give  yourself  up  wholly  to  your  profession,  and  so  forget 
Virginia.  You  must  not  see  her  again  until  you  have  done 
so.  Look  your  destiny  bravely  in  the  face,  and  consider 
this,  that  of  all  men  and  women  who  love  in  the  world,  not 
one  in  ten  thousand  get  the  object  of  their  first  passionate 
attachment — and  perhaps  it  is  well  for  them  that  they  do 
not," 

Judge  Washington  stopped — looked  with  deep  compas- 
sion upon  the  pale  face  of  the  young  man,  pressed  his  cold 
hand,  and  with  a  "  God  bless  you,  Joseph,"  left  the  room, 
feeling  grieved  and  remorseful,  as  though  he  had  just  drawn 
the  black  cap  off  his  head,  after  saying — "  You  shall  be 
taken  from  hence  to  the  prison  from  whence  you  came,  and 


*  To  the  hyper  crttic.8.  ASTCTTB  FRIKXDS :  the  author,  in  introducing  sucn  *  Jig. 
nitary  as  a  Governor  into  her  pages,  has  taken  the  liberty  of  changing  hit 
mam«  — E.  S. 


260  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

from  thence  to  the  place  of  execution,  where  you  shall  be 
hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are  dead — dead — dead.  And 
may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  soul .'" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    GOVERNOR'S    LEVEE. 

"  In  the  vast  city  with  its  peopled  homes, 
And  hearts  all  full  of  an  immortal  life, 
And  busy  merchants  hurrying  to  aud  fro, 
And  curious  travelers  with  thoughtful  mien  ; 
Grave  men  of  wealth,  and  inexperienced  youth 
Learning  his  lesson  from  the  sordid  page."— Mrs.  Ellis. 

JUDGE  WASHINGTON  owned  a  handsome  dwelling  in  one 
of  the  most  fashionable  streets  of  Richmond.  Early  in  the 
fall  he  had  written  to  his  agent  there  to  have  the  mansion 
opened,  renovated,  and  furnished  for  the  reception  of  his 
family  by  the  first  of  December.  It  was  now  ready,  and  he 
prepared  to  dispatch,  in  advance  of  his  family,  and  under 
the  charge  of  Joseph  Carey,  a  staff  of  house-servants. 

A  week  after  the  party  left  Prospect  Hall,  the  Judge,  Sir 
Clinton,  Virginia,  and  Magdalene,  occupying  the  four  seats 
of  the  capacious  family  carriage,  set  out  for  the  capital. 

They  arrived  at  their  town-house  late  on  a  fine  clear  win- 
ter's night,  and  found  a  sumptuous  supper,  prepared 
under  the  auspices  of  Mistress  Polly  Pepper,  awaiting 
them. 

The  next  morning  the  Judge  left  his  address  and  his 
daughter's  card  at  the  homes  or  hotels  of  all  his  oldest  and 
most  valued  friends,  resident  or  now  sojourning  in  the  capi-. 


THE    GOVERNOR'S    LEVEE.          251     - 

tal ;  and  in  a  few  days  thereafter  their  house  began  to  he 
besieged  with  calls,  invitations  to  dinners,  to  parties,  &c. 
Miss  Washington,  or  Miss  Carey  Washington,  as  she  was 
most  frequently  called,  being  the  greatest  heiress  of  the 
State,  was,  of  course,  voted  the  beauty  of  the  season. 
Rumor,  with  some  reason  certainly,  promised  her  hand  to 
her  English  cousin,  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  upon  whom  the  same 
gossip,  with  less  truth,  bestowed  an  immense  patrimonial 
estate  in  Hertfordshire,  England.  Very  eagerly  did  onr 
vivacious  child  enter  into  the  new  life  of  the  city — her 
mornings  were  passed  in  seeing  sights — such  sights  as  the 
city  afforded — in  shopping,  in  consulting  milliners  and 
dressmakers,  in  making  and  receiving  calls,  and  her  even- 
ings at  parties,  balls,  concerts,  plays,  &c.  Very  much  in 
danger  would  Virginia  have  been  of  being  spoiled  by  adu- 
lation and  dissipation,  but  for  her  excellence  of  heart,  and 
simplicity  and  frankness  of  manners.  On  the  shopping  ex- 
peditions, to  the  sight-seeing,  to  the  concerts,  plays,  &c., 
Magdalene  went  with  Virginia,  but  nowhere,  else.  Magda- 
lene distinctly  and  decidedly  refused  to  accompany  Miss 
Washington  in  making  calls,  and  doubtless  it  was  for  that 
reason  that  no  cards  were  left  for  the  former,  and  that  her 
name  was  never  included  in  the  invitations  extended  to  the 
other  members  of  the  family.  This  was  a  great  drawback 
to  Virginia's  happiness.  She  would  never  have  ceased  ex- 
postulating with  Magdalene  upon  the  subject,  but  that 
Judge  Washington  said — 

"  She  is  right,  my  dear  !  wait  until  the  Governor's  levee, 
when  I  shall  present  you  and  Magdalene  together  to  Gen- 
eral Mountjoy.  He  will  immediately  recognize  his  grand- 
daughter, by  her  likeness  to  the  family.  As  my  ward,  with 
rny  introduction,  my  daughter's  companionship,  and  Magda- 
lene's remarkable  beauty,  grace,  and  dignity,  she  must,  I 
•  link,  find  favor  in  his  sight.  I  do  not  wish  her  known  by 


2-  <2  T  H  E     T  \V  O     S  1  S  T  E  K  rt . 

name  tn  society  until  her  presentation — then,  if  her  grand- 
fa  tner  acknowledges  her,  she  will  have  the  proudest  name, 
and  the  first  rank  in  the  city." 

"  But,  father,  by  what  name  will  you  present  Magdalene  ?" 

"  By  that  to  which  she  has  the  best  right." 

"  Will  Magdalene  consent  to  this  ?  You  know  how 
tightly  she  grips  that  grim  patronymic — '  Hawk.  " 

"  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  consult  my  ward  in  this 
matter." 

"  Grandfather !" 

"Well,  Ginnie?" 

"  If  Governor  Mountjoy  should  not  notice  her  ?" 

"  Then  she  remains  my  child." 

"Oh!  best,  most  honored,  dearest  father! — how  I  thank 
you  ! — but  in  that  case,  father,  let  us  return  to  Prospect 
Hall  again.  I  cannot,  oh,  I  cannot  enjoy  a  world  that 
casts  out  my  innocent,  my  noble-minded  sister !" 

"We  do  not  know  that  General  Mountjoy  will  fail  to  ac- 
knowledge his  granddaughter — I  do  not  think  so." 

"  I  hope  not.  Generally  I  am  very  sanguine,  but  yet — 
in  this  case,  I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  I  feel  sad  and 
anxious." 

The  day  of  the  levee  approached.  Judge  Washington 
had  signified  to  Magdalene  his  wish  that  she  should  be  pre- 
sented with  his  daughter  to  General  Mountjoy,  and  Magda- 
lene had  bowed  acquiescence.  Virginia's  little  head  was 
filled  to  aching  with  milliners,  mantua-makers,  velvets,  sat- 
ins, laces,  feathers,  jewels, — but  not  for  herself — for  Mag- 
dalene. She  was  anxious  that  Magdalene  should  triumph. 

Virginia  wished  Magdalene  to  wear  a  rich  white  satin, 
with  a  light  tiara  of  diamonds  on  her  head,  and  offered  for 
the  purpose  her  own  brilliants  to  be  reset.  But  Magdalene, 
with  a  g'-ave  smile,  declined  shining  in  borrowed  jewels — 


THE    GOVERNOR'S    LEVKJC.  203 

and  wore  only  the  rich  white  satin,  trimmed  with  fine  lace, 
and  no  head-dress  but  the  heavy,  glossy  bands  of  her  own 
magnificent  black  hair. 

"  Indeed,  Lena,  you  are  superb,  empresslike  !  goddess- 
like.  I  am  glad  you  did  not  take  the  diamonds.  A  jewel 
would  desecrate  the  statuesque  majesty  of  your  presence." 

"  I  have  to  remind  you  every  day,  that  you  are  an  ex- 
travagant little  enthusiast,  Virginia,"  replied  Magdalene. 

Virginia  wore  a  white  crape,  with  her  golden  red  hair  in 
many  glistening  spiral  ringlets,  and  a  band  of  oriental 
pearls  around  her  forehead. 

One  other  looked  upon  Magdalene  with  enthusiastic  but 
silent  admiration.  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  who  often  meeting 
her  eyes  in  one  long,  long  burning  gaze — expressive  of  all 
that  her  profound  heart  chose  to  translate — turned,  gave 
his  arm  to  Virginia  to  conduct  her  to  the  carriage,  and  no- 
ticed Magdalene  no  more  that  evening.  Judge  Washington 
led  Magdalene.  They  drove  to  the  gubernatorial  mansion. 
The  street  before  the  house  was  crowded  with  carriages,  the 
windows  of  the  mansion  blazing  with  light.  A  band  of 
music  sounded  from  the  saloon.  Our  party  alighted  and 
went  in.  After  arranging  their  toilettes  in  the  cloak-room, 
they  entered  the  reception-chamber.  Magdalene  resting 
upon  the  arm  of  Judge  Washington,  and  Virginia  on  that 
of  Sir  Clinton  Carey.  The  room  was  crowded  with  a  bril- 
liant company,  through  which  they  made  their  way  with 
some  difficulty  to  the  presence  of  the  Governor.  General 
Mountjoy  was  standing  near  one  end  of  the  room,  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  civil  and  military  officers,  "  both  hear- 
ing and  asking  them  questions."  Not  far  distant  from  him, 
and  the  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes,  sat  his  fair  twin  nieces, 
Viola  and  Violet,  chaperoned  by  their  mother,  Mrs.  Swan, 
a  fiiir  and  stately  lady,  the  present  mistress  of  the  mansion- 
house.  On  drawing  near  tne  Governor,  Juilg*-  W^i-toti 


254  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

bowea  with  profound  gravity,  and  taking  the  hand  of  Mag- 
dalene, said, 

"  General  Mountjoy,  allow  me  the  honor  of  presenting  to 
your  excellency,  my  ward,  Miss  Mountjoy,  of  our  county." 

Magdalene  cast  down  her  eyelids,  and  courtesied  deeply, 
before  raising  her  eyes  to  meet  those  of  her  grandfather. 
there  was  a  slight  start  of  surprise  and  displeasure — a 
quick,  penetrating  glance  into  the  brilliantly  beautiful  face 
of  his  granddaughter,  and  then  the  Governor,  with  a  suave 
and  stately  courtesy,  expressed  himself  happy  to  see  Miss 
Mountjoy — no  more. 

The  Judge  then  presented  "  My  daughter,  Miss  Carey 
Washington,"  and  "  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  of  Hertfordshire, 
England."  And  that  ceremony  over,  our  party  paid  their 
respects  to  Mrs.  Swan  and  her  daughters,  and  passed  off  to 
the  saloon,  where  a  band  of  music  was  in  full  operation,  and 
where  several  waltzing  couples  were  on  the  floor.  Magda- 
lene had  heard  Judge  Washington  present  he\  as  Miss 
Mountjoy  with  great  astonishment,  but,  with  her  incom- 
parable self-possession,  she  had  not  betrayed  the  slightest 
surprise.  As  they  passed  through  the  crowded  saloon, 
Judge  Washington  drew  the  arm  of  his  ward  with  affec- 
tionate empressement  closer  within  his  own,  and  stooping, 
whispered  to  her  : 

"  Magdalene,  my  child,  twenty  people  heard  and  saw  your 
presentation  this  evening — now,  however  this  may  eventu- 
ate, I  shall  insist,  my  dear,  upon  your  bearing  your  proper 
patronymic,"  and  pressing  her  hand,  he  led  her  on.  He 
found  a  seat  for  Magdalene,  and,  like  her  true  knight,  re- 
mained by  her  side.  The  rumor  had  spread  through  the 
rooms,  that  that  superb  woman  presented  by  Judge  Wash- 
ington was  Miss  Mountjoy,  a  near  relative  of  the  Governor; 
and  so  it  fell  out  that,  while  the  Judge  attended  Magda- 
lene, manj  were  the  applications  to  him  to  be  presented  to 


THE     G  O  V  E  K  N  O  K '  rf     LEVEE.  255 

his  beautiful  ward,  and  soon  Judge  Washington  bowed  and 
left  Magdalene  surrounded  by  a  group  of  his  own  most 
valued  friends. 

Virginia  was  waltzing  with  Sir  Clinton,  but  as  soon  as 
the  waltz  was  over,  she  desired  to  be  taken  to  her  sister 
Magdalene.  No  sooner  had  "  Miss  Washington"  taken  a 
seat  beside  "Miss  Mountjoy,"  than  the  circle  about  the 
two  beauties  very  greatly  enlarged,  and  the  former  intro- 
duced all  her  own  acquaintances  to  the  latter.  Seeing  his 
ladies  so  well  amused,  Judge  Washington  withdrew  from 
the  saloon,  to  re-enter  the  reception-room,  and  join  the 
circle  immediately  around  the  Governor. 

"  What  sort  of  an  evening  has  it  seemed  to  you,  Lena  ?" 
inquired  Virginia,  when  they  had  reached  home. 

"  It  should  have  been  a  rather  pleasant  evening.  There 
were  several  persons  who  should  have  been  rather  agree- 
able." 

"  And  with  what  a  majestic  weariness  you  say  that !  Yet 
it  is  proper.  You  looked  like  an  empress,  or  rather  as  an 
empress  should  look,  to-night !  You  held  a  court  of  the 
most  eminent  men  and  the  most  fashionable  women  of  the 
capital  around  you  ;  and  you  say,  in  comment  on  the  hom- 
age, '  some  persons  should  have  been  rather  agreeable  !  1 
have  been  caressed  very  much,  but  I  tell  you,  Lena,  that 
had  1  received  one  half  the  homage  that  has  been  wasted 
upon  you  this  evening,  it  would  have  turned  my  head  quite  1 
Why,  Lena,  you  were  '  the  star  of  that  goodly  company,' 
• — '  the  observed  of  ail  observers' — 'the  glass  of  fashion  and 
the  mould  of  form.'  Why,  Lena,  you  have  set  the  fashion  ; 
the  statuesque  simplicity  of  your  dress  this  evening  will 
banish  jewels,  ringlets,  flounces,  furbelows,  and  all  other 
fineries,  from  all  the  ball-rooms  of  this  season.  You  have 
(Succeeded,  Magd-Uene.  You  have  'made  a  sensation' — not 


256  THE     TWO     S  I  S  T  E  K  S  . 

a  fussy  sensation,  like  a  giddy  flirt,  but  a  deep,  admiring 
one,  like — yourself.  And  in  reference  to  all  this  triumph, 
you  only  say,  with  an  august  ennui,  '  It  should  have  been  a 
pleasant  evening  !'  " 

"  Dear  Virginia,  it  is  better  to  tell  you  the  truth,  than  to 
leave  you  to  suspect  me  of  such  absurd  affectation.  Well, 
then,  with  all  its  successes,  the  evening  was  a  very  anxious 
one  to  me,  with  the  thought  of  General  Mountjoy,  and 
the  construction  he  might  be  pleased  to  place  upon  the 
circumstance  of  my  introduction  to  him.  You,  also, 
dearest  Ginuie — you  who  enter  into  all  my  disquietudes 
with  more  feeling  than  I  would  willingly  permit — you 
frequently  betrayed  the  uneasiness  that  /  felt  without 
betraying." 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  I  felt  very  anxious,  but  oh,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  he  will  call  upon  you  to-morrow  1"  said  Vir- 
ginia, earnestly. 

"  Perhaps  so,  dearest  Ginnie.  Now  go  to  bed,  my  own 
darling,  for  these  late  hours  are  beginning  to  dim  the 
sparkling  brilliancy  of  your  complexion,  Ginnie." 

And  so  Magdalene  embraced  and  dismissed  her.  And 
she  herself  retired  "to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep."  Anxiety, 
anxiety  which  humbled  her  in  her  own  eyes,  kept  her 
awake.  What  wild  hopes  were  hers ! — hopes  for  which  she 
half  despised  herself,  even  while  encouraging  them.  The 
next  day  !  What  would  the  next  day  bring  forth  ?  Should 
her  grandfatlur  seek  her,  acknowledge  her,  how  changed 
would  be  her  real  position  !  then  the  high  rank  she  had,  as 
it  were,  usurped  that  evening,  would  be  hers  by  hereditary 
right.  If  he  should  not,  very  soon  would  her  unfortunate 
position  be  understood,  and  the  world  that  had  rendered  its 
homage  to  her  to-day,  would  cast  its  contempt  upon  her 
to-morrow.  Yet  not  for  the  world's  distinctions  was  Mag- 
dalene alone  anxious.  No ;  underneath  all  these  things, 


THE    GOVERNOR'S    LEVEE.  257 

was  that  motive  that  she  scarcely  dared  to  look  into — which, 
perhaps,  she  did  not  really  suspect — which  she  could  not 
have  contemplated  with  any  remnant  of  self-respect.  Shall 
I  strip  aside  the  vail,  and  reveal  proud  Magdalene's  humili- 
ating secret  to  the  reader?  It  was  the  latent  hope  that  Sir 
Clinton  Carey,  while  doing  silent  homage  to  the  beauty  and 
genius,  evidently  despised  the  position  of  Magdalene  Hawk, 
would  honor  the  rank  of  Miss  Mountjoy.  "  Proud  Mada- 
lene"  had  no  pride  for  him. 

No,  Magdalene  had  no  pride  for  him.  The  prejudices 
of  his  aristocratic  education,  the  haughtiness  of  his  hear,., 
the  superciliousness  of  his  manners  gave  her  no  offense. 
That  deportment  which,  in  another  person,  would  have 
repulsed  her  at  once  and  forever,  in  him,  by  a  strange 
fatality,  attracted  her  constantly.  The  secret  was,  perhaps, 
this :  Magdalene  had  a  high  self-appreciation,  great  per- 
sonal pride,  and  in  her  heart  she  felt  that  this  arrogant 
Englishman  valued  her  as  highly  as  she  estimated  herself; 
that  it  was  only  her  position  he  despised,  and  in  her  perfect 
justice  she  excused  him  of  this,  because  she  despised  it  her- 
self. She  felt,  too,  that  those  two  passions,  which  were  fast 
becoming  the  masters  of  her  soul,  were  indivisible  ;  that 
she  could  not  have  loved  with  all  her  heart  one  who  did  not 
meet  her  aspirations  after  social  eminence. 

Magdalene  arose  late  in  the  morning.  She  found  the 
family  assembled  in  the  breakfast-room,  and  only  waiting 
for  her  appearance  before  sitting  down  to  the  discussion  of 
their  coffee,  muffins,  etc.  Soon  after  breakfast,  Virginia, 
attended  by  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  went  out  to  fulfill  an  engage- 
ment; she  had  previously  invited  Magdalene  to  go  with 
her,  but  Magdalene,  ruled  by  a  wild,  irrational  hope,  pre- 
ferred to  remain  at  home.  Judge  Washington  and  Joseph, 
or  Mr.  Carey,  as  we  should  call  him,  were  engaged  in  the 
study  of  the  former.  Magdalene  was  the  only  occupant 


258  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

of  the  drawing-room,  and  through  the  long  hours  of  the 
dny  she  watched  and  waited  with  a  sickening  heart.  Every 
carriage  that  approached  the  house,  every  knock  at  the 
door  aroused  her  expectation,  and  then  disappointed  her. 
It  was,  now,  cards  left  for  Miss  Washington  and  Miss 
Mounljoy,  and  now  a  footman,  or  a  gentleman  coming  on 
business  to  Judge  Washington. 

Virginia  returned  late  in  the  afternoon,  asked  one  hurried 
question  of  the  servants,  received  an  answer  in  the  negative, 
then  sought  Magdalene  in  her  chamber,  and  silently  and 
fervently  embraced  her.  A  week  previous,  Virginia  had 
been  invited  to  a  party  that  was  to  come  off  this  evening. 
She  now  proposed  to  send  an  excuse  and  remain  at  home, 
to  pass  the  evening  with  Magdalene.  But  Magdalene 
would  not  consent  to  this  arrangement.  The  Judge  him- 
self disapproved  it,  and  so  Virginia  went,  attended,  as 
usual,  by  Sir  Clinton  Carey.  Magdalene  passed  another 
sleepless  night,  and  another  anxious  day.  The  next  morn- 
ing, being  the  third  after  the  night  of  the  Governor's  recep- 
tion, Virginia  remained  at  home  with  Magdalene.  The 
hour  was  early,  and  they  bad  not  yet  "  dressed  to  receive 
calls,"  when  a  servant  came  up  stairs  and  placed  two  cards 
in  the  hands  of  Miss  Washington.  Virginia  looked  at 
them  with  surprise  and  displeasure.  They  bore  upon  their 
enameled  surface  the  names  of  MRS.  SWAN,  THE  MISSES 
SWAN,  Magdalene's  near  relatives,  and  yet  no  card  had 
been  left  for  her.  Virginia  impatiently  cast  the  cards  into 
the  grate,  where  they  were  soon  shriveled  up  in  the  flames, 
and  burst  into  tears  of  mingled  grief  and  rage.  To  all  Mag- 
dalene's inquiries  and  efforts  at  soothing  her,  Virginia 
answered  not  a  word,  but  "  I  am  sick  and  tired,  yes,  dis- 
gusted and  worn  out  with  this  city  life.  I  wish  to  return 
to  Prospect  Plains  ;"  and  this,  with  trifling  variations,  she 
repeated  some  twentv  times  while  sobbing  passionately. 


THE    GOVERNOR'S    LEVEE.  259 

And  when  her  fit  of  crying  was  quite  over,  and  she  had 
wiped  her  eyes,  she  said  : 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Meg,  I  am  weary  of  English  baronets,  ana 
governor's  nieces,  and  senator's  ladies,  and  '  lighted  halls,' 
and  sounding  music,  and  nodding  plumes,  and  glistening 
jewels,  and  dressing,  and  visiting,  and  balls,  and  levees, 
and  concerts,  and  plays,  on  and  off  the  stage,  and  feverish 
nights,  and  languid  mornings — oh,  very,  very  weary,  in- 
deed. If  Satan  does  not  angle  for  my  soul  with  some 
more  attractive  bait  than  '  society,'  he  will  never  get  it, 
surely  !  I  want  to  go  back  to  the  country  to  old  father 
Hawk,  and  Bruin,  and  Gulliver,  and  the  negroes,  and  the 
poultry.  Oh,  how  I  wish  this  'winter  in  town,'  which 
smells  so  of  lamp-oil  and  musk,  which  they  call  light  and 
perfume,  as  if  it  were  sunshine  and  violets ;  and  tastes  so 
of  rancid  cream  and  stale  eggs,  disguised  with  essences, 
which  they  call  '  ices,'  and  looks  so  like  Vanity  Fair,  and 
feds  so  like,  nay,  I  have  no  simile  for  what  it  feels  like." 

Virginia  resolved  that  she  would  not,  at  any  one's 
request,  return  the  call  of  Mrs.  Swan  and  her  daughters. 

The  next  week  the  fashionable  world  at  Richmond  were 
thrown  into  great  excitement  by  the  rumor  of  a  ball  to  be 
given  at  the  gubernatorial  mansion  ;  and  in  the  course  of  a 
few  days  notes  of  invitation  arrived  for  Judge  Washington, 
Miss  Washington,  Sir  Clinton,  and  Mr.Carey — none  for  Mag- 
dalene. Upon  this  occasion  Virginia  wished  to  send  an  apol- 
ogy for  declining  the  invitation,  but  the  Judge  said  to  her: 

41  We  cannot,  my  love,  do  any  thing  for  Magdalene  by  re- 
senting this  ;  a  slight  put  upon  her  most  likely  by  the  jealous 
fears  of  the  ladies  of  the  family,  who  would  at  once  lose  their 
rank  in  the  household,  and  perhaps  their  dowers  too,  were 
the  Governor  to  acknowledge  and  take  home  his  only  grand- 
daughter, Miss  Mountjoy.  Xo,  General  Monntjoy  received 
MagdaJene  with  favor,  I  think  ;  he  has  been  immersed  in 


26C  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

business  for  days  past ;  he  knows  nothing  of  this  neglect  on 
the  part  of  the  ladies  of  his  family.  To-morrow  the  Uov- 
ernor  leaves  town,  not  to  return  until  the  day  of  the  ball, 
which  you  must  attend,  Virginia ;  but  after  that  I  will  my- 
self call  on  him  on  Magdalene's  behalf." 

Very  reluctantly  Virginia  consented  to  attend  this  ball 
Very  regretful  she  felt  to  leave  Magdalene — now  so  grave 
and  stern — at  home.  Before  setting  out,  she  came  in, 
looking  beautiful  and  brilliant  in  her  light-blue  satin  dress, 
with  a  wreath  of  white  rose-buds  in  pearl  arid  emeralds, 
encircling  her  graceful  head.  She  cast  her  arms  around 
Magdalene,  and  pressing  her  to  her  bosom,  said — 

"  If  I  go,  Magdalene,  it  is  for  your  sake,  indeed  it  is.  I 
would  not  offend  those  proud  Swans.  General  Mountjoy 
has  just  got  home,  and  father  intends  to  wait  upon  him  to- 
morrow, for  the  purpose  of  having  an  interview  with  him  ! 
Oh !  you  know,  Magdalene,  that  no  one  can  withstand 
Judge  Washington  in  a  good  cause  !  You  know  that  it 
was  mainly  attributable  to  my  father's — your  guardian's 
great  exertions,  that  General  Mountjoy  was  elected.  So, 
you  see,  a  word  from  him  must — I  Oh  !  Magdalene,  1 
shall  yet  see  Miss  Mountjoy  placed  above  all  these  people 
who  have  dared  to  slight  her  !  Good-night,  dear  Magda- 
lene !"  and  kissing  her,  Ginnie  vanished  from  the  room. 

Magdalene's  hopes  were  raised  again.  Could  her  grand- 
father fail  to  be  influenced  by  the  opinion  of  so  esteemed  a 
a  man,  and  the  advice  of  so  valuable  a  political  adherent  as 
Judge  Washington  ?  Yet  he  might  !  What  would  "  to- 
morrow"— the  second  "  to-morrow"  of  her  great  anxiety 
devolope  ?  It  was  not  social  position  alone — it  was  all  her 
soul's  dearest  hopes  that  were  at  stake.  Again  the  night 
was  passed  without  rest,  and  Magdalene  arose  from  her  bed 
excited,  fevered,  almost  ill. 

Judge  Washington   kept    his    promise  in   going  to    see 


PARTING.  2<>1 

General  Mountjoy,  and  the  long  hours  of  his  absence  were 
passed  in  the  greatest  anxiety  by  Magdalen-e  and  Virginia. 
It  was  near  noon  when  he  returned,  with  a  grave  and  dis- 
appointed expression  of  countenance.  Virginia  sprang  to 
meet  him,  opened  her  mouth  to  speak  to  him,  but  the  Judge 
placing  his  hand  upon  her  lips,  stopped  her,  and  passing 
up  to  Magdalene,  took  her  hand,  bent  and  kissed  her  brow, 
and  said — 

"  I  have  undisputed  possession  of  you  now,  Magdalene 
You  are  henceforth  my  daughter." 

That  was  all  that  was  ever  said  of  his  interview  with 
Governor  Mountjoy. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

PARTING. 

"  And  canst  them  think  because  we  part 
Till  some  brief  mouths  have  flown, 
That  absence  e'er  can  change  a  heart 
Which  yearn  have  made  thiue  own  f 

THE  end  of  the  season  approached.  Joseph  had  passed  a 
triumphant  examination,  and  had  been  admitted  to  practice 
nt  the  bar.  Judge  Washington  had  presented  him  to  many 
of  his  friends,  men  of  great  influence;  he  had  also  taken  for 
him  a  suit  of  handsomely  furnished  rooms  in  a  private 
lodging-house  kept  by  the  widow  of  one  of  his  own  old  class- 
mates, and  thus  having  seen  him  in  every  way  comfortably 
provided,  he  prepared  to  take  his  family  back  to  Prospect 
Plains.  Virginia,  from  the  first,  had  heard  that  they  were 
to  leave  Joseph  in  town,  but  Ginnie  was  predisposed  to 
merriment,  and  happiness  and  the  bright  side  of  things, 
16 


262  '1HE     TVtO     SISTERS. 

occupied  with  many  novelties,  and  interested  in  Magda- 
lene's fortunes,  so  she  did  not  anticipate  any  trouble  so  far  off 
as  the  parting  with  Joseph  at  the  end  of  the  season.  When 
this  parting  came,  however — when  the  cart  packed  with  the 
strapped  and  corded  trunks,  and  drawn  by  stout  mules,  had 
rolled  away  from  the  back  gate  of  the  house,  and  the 
carriage  was  drawn  up  before  the  front  door,  the  family  in 
traveling  dresses  were  assembled  in  the  hall,  and  Joseph 
standing  there,  the  only  one  to  be  left  behind — Virginia 
look  leave  of  him  at  first  with  little  show  of  emotion  ; 
but  after  Magdalene  had  kissed  him,  the  Judge  and  Sir 
Clinton  Carey  had  shaken  hands  with  him,  and  she  herself 
was  about  to  be  handed  into  the  carriage,  Ginnie  suddenly 
broke  away,  flew  back,  cast  her  arms  around  the  neck  of 
Joseph,  and,  regardless  of  all  eyes  upon  her,  buried  her 
face  in  his  bosom,  and  gave  way  to  a  violent  burst  of  grief. 
Joseph  raised  his  eyes  once  to  Judge  Washington,  as  much 

as  to  say,   "  Let  me  !  trust  me  !"  and  then  folded  Ginnie 

in  his  arms  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  brow. 

"  Come,  my  love,"  said  the  Judge,  when  a  full  minute  had 

elapsed,  and — 

"  Good-by,   dearest  sister,"  said  Joseph,  trying  gently  to 

put  her  away  ;  but  Ginnie  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom  and 

clung  desperately  around  his  neck — now  realizing,  for  the 

first  time,  what  it  was  to  part  with  Joseph. 

"  Come,  come,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  Judge  a  second, 

a  third  time,  before  Ginnie,  amid  convulsive  sobs,  whispered 

to  Joseph, 

"Take  me  to  the  carriage  yourself,  I  am  getting  so  weak  I 

Put  me  in,  Joseph  !  Don't  leave  me  till  the  carriage  rolls  off. 

Then  stand  in  the  door  until  it  is  out  of  sight,  and  I  will  look 

from  the  window  as  long  as  I  can  see  you,  dearest  Joseph  !" 
Joseph   lifted   her   in    his  arms  and  set  her  within  the 

carriage. 


PARTING. 

"  God  bless  you,  Joseph !  Oh  1  God  bless 
she  said  fervently,  and  this  she  repeated  mapf  times  aloud, 
whi'e  waving  her  handkerchief  from  the, -window  as  long  as 
she  could  see  him,  and  many  times  ki  her  heart,  after  the 
carriage  had  rolled  out  of  the  city.  Yirginia  fell  back  in 
the  corner  of  the  carriage  and  wept  behind  her  vail^  Mi  g- 
dalene  held  and  pressed  her  hand  from  time  ^0"  time,  but 
abstained  from  other  attempts  at  soothing'  her.  Judge 
Washington  and  Sir  Clinton  Carey  from' delicacy,  policy,  or 
both,  refrained  from  noticing, her,  but  entered  into  some 
earnest,  political^cojjj^rsStion,  carried  on  in  a  low  tone. 
At  the  little  town  of  Warsaw,  where  they  stopped  to  dine, 
Ginnie  could  eat  nothing.  At  Heathville,  where  they 
stopped  to  sup  and  to  sleep,  Giuuie  entered  her  chamber, 
leaning  heavily  upon  the  arm  of  Magdalene  ;  upon  whose 
bosom  she  lay  awake  and  weeping  all  night.  To  all  Mag- 
dalene's words  of  condolence  and  consolation,  she  would 
answer — 

"  Oh,  Lena !  I  did  not  know  how  it  would  be  till  I  felt 
it !  I  did  not  dread  it!  but  now  I  feel  as  if  one  half  my 
life  was  gone.  My  whole  heart  and  frame  is  sinking,  Lena, 
nnd  my  head  throbs  so  dreadfully!  Is  there  any  thing  in 
the  world  worth  so  much  suffering  ?" 

The  next  morning  her  eyes  were  highly  inflamed,  and 
her  temples  hot,  and  the  veins  heating  fast  and  full.  Judge 
Washington  was  alarmed.  He  could  not  at  first  decide 
whether  to  remain  where  they  were  for  the  present,  or  to 
hurry  home  with  all  possible  expedition.  ITe  determined 
on  the  latter  course,  as  they  were  within  a  short  day's 
journey  of  Prospect  Plains.  They  arrived  early  in  the 
evening  of  the  fifth  of  March,  and  Virginia  was  lifted  from 
the  carriage  and  conveyed  immediately  to  bed.  Dr.  Mc- 
Arthur  was  sent  for,  but,  as  is  usual,  when  a  physician  is 
much  needed  in  the  country,  he  could  not  be  found.  All 


264  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

night  long  Judge  Washington  and  Magdalene  watched  by 
the  bedside  of  Ginnie,  whose  brain  struggled  fearfully  be- 
tween reason  and  frenzy.  She  would  fall  into  a  fitful,  feverish 
sleep,  and  hear  loved  tones  in  her  dreams,  and  starting  oui 
of  them  would  ask — 

"Was  that  Joseph  who  spoke?  Have  we  turned  back? 
Are  we  at  home?"  (the  city  house  was  home  now,)  and  then 
a  burst  of  violent  sorrow  would  prove  that  full  reason  hud 
for  the  moment  returned.  In  the  morning  Dr.  McArthur 
carne,  and  by  his  skillful  treatment  the  fever  was  abated, 
and  the  threatened  inflammation  of  the  brain  prevented. 

"This  will  soon  be  over,  sir.  These  ardent  and  sanguine 
temperaments,  who  feel  and  express  emotion  so  violently  at 
first,  soon  expend  their  force  and  recover.  Your  little 
daughter  will  not  kill  herself  now,  as  she  has  not  done  it 
already,"  said  Dr.  McArthur  to  the  Judge,  who  had  made 
a  confident  of  him. 

The  event  proved  his  words  to  be  true.  Yet  Virginia 
was  confined  some  days  to  her  room — during  which  time 
Sir  Clinton  Carey  had  received  letters,  that  summoned  him 
to  an  interview  with  the  British  Minister,  at  Washington ; 
and  he  now  intimated  his  intended  departure. 

Magdalene  !  The  stream  of  her  external  life  had  flowed 
on  tediously  and  monotonously  enough  for  the  last  two 
or  three  months,  since  her  rejection  by  her  grandfather. 
But  hurriedly,  troubledly,  continually  passing  through  new, 
various,  most  bitter,  and  humiliating  experiences,  and  mak- 
ing new  revelations,  had  thundered  the  onward  current  of 
her  soul. 

Magdalene  stood  before  her  easel,  but  her  subject,  "  The 
Death  of  Martnion,"  did  not  grow  beneath  her  hand.  She 
mused — What  could  be  the  meaning  of  Sir  Clinton  Carey's 
singular  manner  toward  her  ?  Her  experience  in  life,  nor 
her  reading,  gave  her  a  solution  of  the  mystery.  His  man- 


r  AH  TING.  265 

ner  toward  her  was  that  of  an  absolute  neglect,  or  over- 
Bight.  Even  in  Richmond  he  had  never  noticed  any  word 
or  act  of  hers — never  addressed  his  conversation  ty,  her — 
uever  by  word  or  gesture  given  the  slightest  recognition  of 
her  existence ;  yet — how  often  in  the  drawing-room,  even 
when  it  was  full  of  people,  and  he  and  she  were  separated 
by  the  width  of  the  apartment,  would  sheafed  his  dark  eyes 
fixed  full  upon  hers  with — what  language  ?  How  much  they 
said  !  What  love,  what  reverence,  ,-wh-at  confidence  they  ex- 
pressed and  inspired  !  How  distiqtftly,  how  forciby,  how 
eloquently,  those  eyes  said-i— "  Believe  in  me,  Magdalene  ! 
I  love  you  !  I  venerate  you  !  but  £  must  not  seem  to  see 
you!  Aye,  Magdalene!  wonder  at  me,  if  you  will  but 
believe  in  me  !  love  me  !"  Thus  she  read  them,  and  so  she 
dreamed,  and  wondered,  and  believjed,  .and  loved.  The 
very  inexplicability  was  the?  maze  that  drew  the  imagination 
and  the  heart  of  the  doomed  girl,  more  swiftly,  surely, 
fatally,  into  the  whirlpool.  She  abandoned  herself  to  the 
delirium  of  this  new  joy  of  life.  She  knew  her  own  pride 
and  ambition — she  knew  his  unbending  arrogance ;  yet 
excited  and  intoxicated,  blinded  and  bewildered,  she  never 
feared  how  all  this  might  end.  Her  plans  were  all  fore- 
gone now.  There  was  no  more  ennui ;  no  more  emptiness, 
weariness  of  life;  no  more  vague  longings  after — she  knew 
"not  what;"  no!  all  feelings,  thoughts,  desires,  hopes, 
ambitions,  aspirations,  were  merged  in  one  great  want,  love! 
"  Oh,  yes  !"  she  thought,  "  I  have  wanted  many  things — 
wealth,  luxury,  rank,  fame  !  but  now,  now  I  wish  for  nothing 
but  love  !  one  exclusive  love  !  the  whole  heart's  love  of  one 
man.  All  wants  are  swallowed  up  in  that !  And  despite 
his  icy,  stubborn  indifference — despite  his  studied  neglect 
and  scorn,  I  must  win  it !  I  will  win  it !  Oh,  hungering 
and  thirsting — yes,  starving  and  fainting  for  this  love — I 
will  have  it,  though  it  were  the  very  forbidden  fruit,  whose 


266  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

taste  is  death  !    Ah,  to  be  loved  once !  to  be  loved  once  exclu- 
sively, even  though  ^o  die  with  the  memory  in  my  heart!" 

During  the  last  few  days  of  his  stay  at  Prospect  Plains, 
his  conduct  had  become  still  more  inexplicable.  His  man- 
ner from  being  merely  neglectful,  had  become  coolly,  quietly 
insolent.  He  even  called  her  "  Magdalene  " — not  affec- 
tionately as  the  bosom  friend  of  his  cousin,  but  supercili- 
ously, as  he  would  have  called  Miss  Washington's  maid 
"Coral."  Nay,  more — he  asked  small  services  of  her  with 
perfect  nonchalance — as,  to  hand  him  his  gloves,  hat,  or  cane, 
and  would  frequently  offend  Virginia — who  was  now  able 
to  come  down-stairs  and  take  a  walk  in  the  middle  of  the 
day — by  sending  Magdalene  for  Miss  Washington's  shawl, 
or  bonnet,  etc.  Even  this  cool  impudence  did  not  offend, 
discourage,  or  daunt  Magdalene.  I  repeat,  that  she  had 
no  pride  where  her  affections  were  concerned.  It  is  written 
"  Perfect  love  casteth  out  fear."  It  is  true,  also,  that  per- 
fect love  casteth  out  pride,  as  well.  She  felt,  besides,  that 
she  was  quite  worthy  of  him — that  he  must  love  her  when 
he  knew  her  well — that  he  must  love  her  even  as  she  loved 
him,  when  he  should  know  her  mind  and  heart,  as  they 
could  only  be  known  in  the  intimacy  of  domestic  life.  All 
this  time,  with  that  refined  intuitive  tact  which  is  not  guile, 
but  which  so  closely  resembles  it — that  exquisite  tact  by 
which  some  women  are  enabled  to  mould  themselves  to  the 
ideal  standard  set  up  by  the  man  they  love ;  Magdalene 
appeared,  or  really  became  the  model  of  all  that  Clinton 
Carey  most  worshiped  in  woman.  Nevertheless  his  man- 
ner toward  her,  as  1  said,  became  daily  more  arrogant  and 
inexplicable — and  indeed,  it  was  only  by  his  seeming  indif- 
ference, that  Magdalene  could  maintain  her  self-possession 
at  all ;  for  if  he  chanced  to  speak  to  her  in  a  softened  tone, 
her  heart  trembled,  her  voice  failed,  and  her  whole  face  was 
suffused  with  blushes. 


PAKTIXG.  267 

The  day  at  length  came  for  Sir  Clinton  Carey's  depar- 
ture. He  had  taken  leave  of  the  family  the  night  previous,* 
in  order  to  set  out  before 'sunrise  to  meet  the  stage  at  St. 
Leonard's.  Since  Virginia's  illness,  Magdalene  had  had 
exclusive  superintendence  of  household  affairs,  and  was 
usually  the  first  one  astir  of  the  family.  Upon  this  morn- 
ing she  had  risen  by  daybreak  for  two  reasons  :  firstly,  be- 
cause she  had  not  slept  all  night ;  and  secondly,  because, 
away  down  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  unguessed — at  least 
unconfessed  by  herself — lurked  a  wish  to  see  Sir  Clinton 
Carey  once  more  before  his  departure.  She  entered  the 
wainscoted,  crimson-furnished  parlor,  which,  from  its  light 
oak  pannels  and  thick  curtains,  as  well  as  by  the  remaining 
fire  of  the  previous  night,  was  comfortably  warm,  though 
dark  and  obscure.  Magdalene  stood  upon  the  hearth,  with 
her  brow  bent  forward,  and  resting  upon  the  mantel-piece, 
in  that  attitude  of  sombre  thought  peculiar  to  herself.  The 
servants  were  not  yet  astir,  the  house  was  very  quiet,  when 
she  heard  the  door  swing  gently  open,  a  step  advance  into 
the  room,  and  Sir  Clinton  Carey  was  beside  her.  She  had 
expected,  wished  for  his  entrance ;  yet  now  a  consciousness 
of  that  wish,  like  a  feeling  of  guilt,  oppressed  her, — she, 
the  strong  and  self-possessed,  turned  sick  with  faintness 
arid  fear,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  countenance  and 
bowed  her  morning  salutation.  What  was  in  that  counte- 
nance to  send  all  the  blood  from  her  cheek,  and  bring  it 
back  again  in  a  rush  ?  He  looked  at  her  in  the  face  a  mo- 
ment intently,  and,  dropping  upon  one  knee,  took  her  hand. 
Yes,  he,  the  arrogant,  coldly -contemptuous  man,  whose 
scorn  of  her  had,  more  than  any  thing  else  on  earth,  galled 
her  proud  spirit  with  a  sense  of  her  humiliating  position — 
he  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  holding  her  hands,  raising  his 
eyes  to  hers  with  such  a  soul  of  earnestness — yes,  of  ayony, 
piercing  through  their  fire. 


268  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Magdalene !"  he  said,  and  the  very  tone  of  music,  of 
eloquence,  spoke  volumes — "  Magdalene  !" 

She  was  very  much  agitated,  her  voice  utterly  failed  her, 
after  saying, 

"  Rise  !  oh,  rise  !"  while  she  impulsively  closed  her  hands 
upon  his,  as  though  she  would  have  lifted  him.  He  only 
dropped  his  head  an  instant  upon  those  hands,  and  shud- 
dered through  every  limb. 

"  Magdalene  !  ray  Worship  !  my  Terror  !" 

"Up,  up,  for  Heaven's  sake,  up  !"  she  struggled  to  say. 

"  Nay,  my  Queen,  nay  !"  he  said,  lifting  ap  his  head. 
"  Even  here  will  I  make  my  confession  !  here,  at  the  feet 
of  her  whom  I  have  worshiped,  seeming  to  scorn  !  Mag- 
dalene, from  the  first  moment  I  met  you — do  you  remember 
it  ? — it  was  not  in  what  might  be  called  a  picturesque  or 
an  interesting  position — it  was  in  the  evening,  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, before  the  lamps  were  lighted ;  you  were  stand- 
ing before  the  fire,  but  had  stooped  to  tie  your  shoe,  or, 
perhaps,  to  pick  up  something,  when  I  approached  you — 
raising  your  eyes,  they  met  mine  in  a  first  full  gaze  ;  and, 
Magdalene,  those  full  dark  eyes  of  thine  struck  at  once  the 
whole  '  electric  cord'  of  my  being  ;  I  trembled  to  the  very 
centre  of  my  heart.  It  was  so  dark  that  yon  could  not  see 
it.  You  spoke  and  welcomed  me,  and,  Magdalene,  your 
voice  had  the  same  strange,  thrilling  spell  as  that  of  your 
glance.  Since  that,  Magdalene,  my  whole  being  has  tended 
strongly,  irresistibly,  fatally,  toward  you,  Magdalene,  I 
sought,  by  avoidance  of  you,  by  repulsion  of  you,  to  coun- 
teract, or  at  least  to  weaken  the  centripetal  power  of  your 
spirit  over  mine.  Magdalene,  I  have  dared  to  look  on  you, 
to  speak  to  you  but  few  times  during  our  acquaintance,  and 
even  then  my  whole  soul  has  been  shaken  as  by  a  st^rm 
Yet  ever,  Magdalene,  have  you  been  at  my  side — sleeping, 
making,  by  night,  by  day,  have  you  haunted, 


1'  A  K  T  1  X  G  .  269 

Magdalene,  my  Destiny,  I  was  about  to  depart  and  make 
no  sign.  You  have  willed  it  otherwise.  Be  it  so  1  But 
now  listen  !  It  is  vainer  than  vanity,  my  love  and  yours  ! 
I  am  poor,  even  very  poor,  Magdalene.  My  Christian 
father,  offended  by  my  freedom  of  thought  and  opinion, 
disinherited  me  as  far  as  he  could,  and  left  the  whole  of  his 
estate  to  my  younger  brother,  leaving  me  only  the  barren 
title,  of  which  he  could  not  deprive  me.  Yes,  Magdalene, 
I  am  poor,  and  so  are  you.  I  am  ambitious,  and  so  are 
you.  We  must  both  reach  eminence,  or,  rather,  you  aud  I 
must  each  '  achieve  greatness,'  but  not  together.  Magda- 
lene, much  as  we  love  each  other — for  I  will  not  affect  ig- 
norance of  your  heart — much  as  we  love  each  other,  we 
should  be  each  fatal  to  the  ambition  of  the  other." 

During  this  speech,  Magdalene  had  assumed  that  sover- 
eign self-possession  which  none  but  he  possessed  the  power 
of  disturbing.  Withdrawing  her  hand,  she  was  about  to 
say,  "Sir  Clinton,  I  thank  you  for  your  candor,"  but, 
meeting  his  eyes,  so  eloquent  with  love,  sorrow  and  rever- 
ence, she  said,  as  speaking  beside  herself — for  how  else 
should  she  have  forgotten  her  maidenly  reserve — she  said, 
softly, 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken  ;  why  should  we  not  command 
success  together  ?  If  it  were  not  so — if  each  can  only  suc- 
ceed apart  from  the  other — is  not  the  price  of  such  success 
too  high  to  pay  ?" 

"That  is  the  logic  of  youth  and  womanhood,  dearest 
Magdalene  I" 

"It  is  truth  !" 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  yet  a  truth  you  would  hate  me  for  follow- 
ing, ten  years  hence.  And  Magdalene,"  he  said,  turning 
very  pale,  "I  am  affianced  to  another." 

Magdalene  clenched  her  hands,  and  compressed  her  lips, 
intl  her  brow  became  livid,  as  she  said, 


270  THE     TWO     SIS  TEES. 

"  Then,  why  this  address  to  me  ?" 

"  Why  did  you  throw  yourself  in  ray  way  this  morning, 
M.igdalene  ?  Nay,  do  not  reply — we  were  both  impelled 
by  a  power  stronger  than  our  own  sense  of  right !" 

'•'  /  was  not — you  must  know  this,"  said  Magdalene, 
making  a  great  effort  to  subdue  her  emotions,  and  speak 
clearly;  "you  must  understand  this.  I  am  incapable  of 
doing  any  thing  I  believe  to  be  wrong.  My  bosom's  judge 
acquits  me  in  this  instance.  But  you — you  are  pledged  to 
another,  yet  you  do  not  love  her !" 

"  No,  I  only  love  Magdalene  1" 

"  Does  your  betrothed  love  you  ?" 

"No,  she  loves  another  !" 

"  Both  false  or  both  inconstant !"  said  Magdalene  bit- 
terly. 

"  Thou  child  !  this  engagement  was  concluded  upon  bj 
others,  before  we  had  ever  seen  each  other." 

The  countenance  of  Magdalene  cleared. 

"  Does  she  know  of  this  betrothal  ?" 

"  No." 

MagdaJene's  brow  was  irradiated — she  was  about  to 
speak,  when  the  door  opened,  and,  Prince  appearing  with- 
in it,  said, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  your  horse  has  been  saddled 
half-an-hour,  and  the  stage  leaves  St.  Leonard's  at  seven 
o'clock." 

"  Not  a  moment  to  lose,  Magdalene  !  Farewell !  fare- 
well 1"  he  said,  pressing  her  hand  to  his  iips  an  instant,  and 
then  he  was  gone. 

Her  face  was  radiant,  even  after  he  left  her.  "  I  will  win 
him  yet.  He  loves  me.  I  always  felt  it,  and  now  he  avows 
it.  He  sha!l  not  commit  the  sin  of — while  he  loves  another 
— marrying  a  girl  he  does  not  love,  and  who  also  loves  not 
him,  but  some  one  else  I — thus  making  four  people  uu- 


SORROW     AND     CONSOLATION.          271 

happy.  No  I  by  the  very  strength  of  my  soul  he  shall  not 
do  this.  I  cau  wait,  wait !  I  do  not  care  how  many  years 
of  time,  or  miles  of  sea  and  land  may  sever  us  1  This  heart 
is  mine,  and  I  can  wait !" 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  MAIDEN'S  FIRST   SORROW  AND  CONSOLATION. 

"  Now  In  thy  youth  beseech  of  Him 

Who  giveth  upbraiding  not, 
That  His  light  in  thy  heart  become  not  dim1, 

Nor  His  love  be  unforgot  ; 
And  thy  GOD,  lu  the  darkest  of  days,  will  be 

Beauty,  and  greenness,  aud  strength  to  thee." — Bernard  Barton 

THOUGH  the  first  violence  of  Virginia's  grief  at  parting 
with  Joseph  had  abated,  yet  her  cheerfulness  had  by  no 
means  returned.  Slie  missed  the  intimate  associate  of  her 
infancy,  childhood,  and  youth  every  hour.  Her  very  home 
Beemed  desolate  without  him,  and  all  else  that  remained  to 
her  as  valueless  as  the  ninety-nine  sheep  in  the  wilderness 
seemed  to  the  shepherd  who  left  them  for  the  sake  of  the 
one  that  was  lost.  After  the  departure  of  Sir  Clinton  Ca- 
rey, she  seemed  somewhat  less  depressed  ;  she  resumed  her 
usual  avocations ;  took  her  alternate  weekly  charge  of  the 
housekeeping,  and  always  kept  a  supervision  over  the 
hous",  the  garden,  the  dairy,  and  the  poultry-yard ;  but  her 
livelj  interest  in  all  these  things  had  flagged  ;  very  wearily 
she  performed  these  duties.  Her  bloom  had  departed  with 
her  vivacity.  One  day  her  grandfather  found  her  on  her 
return  from  her  favorite  bantam  chicken- coop-- leaning 
with  fatigue  or  peusiveness  against  the  gate  post,  her  straw 


L72  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

nat  hanging  off  behind  her  head,  and  the  little  basket  of 
coarse  ground  com  hanging  heavily  from  her  tired  hand. 
It  was  such  a  picture  of  weariness,  sorrow,  and  self-aban- 
donment, in  one  so  young  and  artless,  that  her  grandfather 
looked  on  h«r  with  a  moistened  eye,  as  he  said,  within  him- 
self— 

"It  is  not  the  love-sickness  of  a  sentimental  school-girl. 
It  is  not  love-sickness  at  all.  It  is  the  lonely  sister's  pining 
for  her  cradle-brother.  Virginia  !"  he  said,  aloud. 

"  My  dear  grandfather,"  she  answered,  looking  up. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  love  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Josey,  father,  and — I  do  not  feel 
strong — that  is  all,"  she  said,  drawing  her  basket  upon  her 
arm,  putting  on  her  hat,  and  turning  to  open  the  gate. 

But  the  Judge,  with  that  stately  suavity  of  the  old-school 
manner,  which  ever  blended  the  courtesy  of  the  gentleman 
with  the  affection  of  the  relative,  intercepted  the  motion, 
and  taking  her  little  basket,  and  drawing  her  arm  within  his 
own,  led  her  toward  the  house. 

"  Will  you  pass  an  hour  with  me  in  the  library,  Vir- 
ginia ?" 

"Certainly,  aear  grandfather." 

"  Come  then,"  he  said,  and  led  her  thither.  A  little 
bright  fire,  that  the  fresh  spring  day  required,  was  blazing 
on  the  small  hearth.  Judge  Washington  placed  Ginnie  in 
the  easy-chair,  laid  away  her  little  hat,  and  drawing  his 
elbow-chair  to  her  side,  said :  "  Give  me  your  confidence, 
ray  child.  You  have  no  mother.  Speak  to  me  freely,  my 
Ginnie." 

Virginia  wiped  away  the  tears  that  began  to  fall  from  her 
eyes,  and  said  : 

"  I  miss  Joseph  so  much,  father,  that  is  all  The  place 
does  not  seem  the  same  without  Joseph." 

"And persons  do  not  seem  the  same." 


SORROW     AND     CONSOLATION.  278 

"  That  is  so.  I  feel  it  is  wrong,  but  I  canuot  help  it ; 
persons  do  not  seem  the  same  to  me.  Now  that  Joseph  is 
gone,  I  do  not  take  comfort  in  any  one  that  is  left  behind 
as  I  ought.  I  do  not  love  any  one  here  as  I  ought.  Is  it 
because  my  heart  is  desolate  ?" 

"What  has  become  of  your  faith  in  the  universal  efficacy 
of  prayer,  my  child  ?" 

"  I  have  it  yet,  father.  I  do  pray.  If  I  did  not,  I  should 
die ;  for  I  am  not  a  strong  girl,  father.  My  life  and  gayety 
was  not  strength,  not  energy,  not  fortitude,  father-— only 
vivacity — as  different  from  sound,  well-founded,  all-enduring 
cheerfulness  of  heart,  as — as  a  blaze  of  stubble-straw  is  from 
a  bright,  lasting  fire  of  solid  hickory  logs.  And  the  quick- 
ness of  intelligence  for  which  I  have  been  overpraised — it 
is  not  force  of  thought,  only  swiftness  of  apprehension — as 
different  from  strength  of  intellect  as  the  fitful  flashes  of 
lightning  are  from  the  ever-shining  stars.  No,  father,  I 
am  a  weak  girl  in  mind  and  body,  very  weak ;  and  I  feel 
it  so  much,  now  that  Joseph  is  gone.  I  feel  as  though  a 
support  were  taken  from  me,  and  I  should  fall ;  and  if  I 
did  not  pray,  father,  I  should — and  perhaps  I  should 
die." 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  dear  Virginia.  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  a  deep — and  high  truth.  That  feeling  of  desolation, 
Virginia — it  comes  to  all,  many  times  in  life,  no  matter  bow 
happy  their  position  may  be — and  most  of  all  it  comes  to 
earnest  souls — it  is  a  visitation  from  heaven,  Virginia,  it  is 
a  providence  of  God,  it  is  intended  to  call  up  the  soul  that 
neglects  its  higher  life.  Yes,  Virginia,  there  are  times  in 
the  lives  of  all,  even  of  the  most  loving,  and  the  most  happy, 
when  neither  luxury,  wealth,  fame,  nor  love  ;  neither  mother, 
nor  father,  nor  brethren,  nor  sisters,  nor  wife,  nor  children 
can  satisfy  the  soul — when  the  soul,  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
truest  surrounding  affections,  feels  a  complete  desolation, 


274  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

which  she  endures  in  solitude,  in  silence,  as  though  it  were 
some  guilty  secret — until,  perhaps,  indeed,  the  affections 
die  in  the  desert.  If  that  soul,  at  that  stage  of  its  experi- 
ence, would  lift  itself  fervently,  earnestly,  perseveringly  to 
God — not  by  going  down  upon  the  knees  formally,  but  by 
raising  the  heart — she  would  find  that  the  love  of  God 
would  .meet  her  with  a  blessing.  She  would  return  with 
strengthened  faith,  renewed  love,  refreshed  hope,  and  her 
friends  would  be  dear  to  her  again,  and  her  possessions 
valued  again.  Yes,  Ginnie,  our  dearest  affections  and  best 
enjoyments  require  constantly  the  renovating  sunshine  and 
dew  of  Heaven  to  keep  them  alive*and  blooming  through  a 
long  life.  When  the  soul  is  wearied  even  unto  death,  with 
every  thing  in  the  world,  let  her  go  to  God  for  rest  and 
renovation,  and  she  will  return  with  a  new  gift  of  life — a 
new  capacity  for  enjoyment — an  almost  childlike  zest  for 
the  blessings  of  life.  Dearest  child,  I  wish  I  could  impress 
this  upon  your  heart.  You  think  that  you  do  not  love  me 
or  your  friend  Magdalene  now.  It  is  only  because  your 
bosom  is  filled  with  sorrowful  regret.  Pray,  my  Ginnie, 
and  the  regret  will  be  softened,  and  the  love  fully  re- 
stored." 

"  I  have  done  so,  father,  and  have  been  sustained — I  will 
do  so,  and  I  believe  that  I  shall  be  restored." 


CHAPTER    XX 

i 

THE     ADOPTED     CHILDREN 


'  Leave  as  not,  leave  us  not, 

Say  not  adieu ! 
Have  we  not  »>een  to  thee 
Tender  and  true  T 

Too  sad  our  love  would  be 

If  il^u  wert  gone  1 
Turn  to  us,  leave  us  not, 

Thou  art  our  own." — Heinans. 


As  time  passed,  Virginia  regained  her  health  and  cheer- 
fulness, and  became  once  more  zealously  interested  in  her 
household  affairs.  About  once  a  fortnight  they  received 
letters  from  Joseph  Carey,  every  one  of  which  gave  evi- 
dence of  his  success  in  his  profession,  as  well  as  of  his  con- 
tinued regard  and  undying  gratitude.  At  last,  however, 
came  a  letter  to  Judge  Washington,  marked  "private." 
He  took  it  away  to  his  study,  opened,  and  read  it.  It 
began  by  informing  him  that  the  writer,  though  then  in  the 
high  current  of  prosperity,  determined  to  abandon  his  pro- 
fession, believing  himself  to  be  the  subject  of  a  Divine  mis- 
sion to  carry  Christianity  and  civilization  to  the  heathen — 
the  Light  of  Life  to  nations  that  sat  in  darkness ;  it  con- 
cluded by  expressing  a  hope  that  his  dear  friend  and  patron 
might  approve  the  mission  to  which  he  was  so  strongly  at- 
tracted. Judge  Washington  pondered  on  this  letter  some 
time  before  replying  to  it.  He  wrote,  and,  laying  before 
Joseph  all  the  difficulties,  hardships,  toils,  privations,  dan- 
gers, and  discouragements  of  the  missionary's  life,  and  re- 
minding him  that  many  enthusiastic  young  people  mistook 

(275) 


276  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

that  for  a  Divine  call,  which  was  in  reality  nothing  but  dis- 
appointment, ennui,  love  of  adventure,  or  some  other  coun- 
terfeit, begged  him  to  stick  to  his  profession  for  at  least 
twelve  months  longer  before  deciding".  For  the  present,  he 
said  nothing  of  this  to  Virginia. 

The  same  mail  brought  him  letters  from  Sir  Clinton 
Carey,  at  Washington,  informing  him  that  business  of  the 
utmost  importance  called  him  to  England  ;  that  he  was 
then  on  the  eve  of  his  journey  and  voyage  ;  and  begging 
permission  to  make  his  adieus  to  the  family  by  letter  only. 
This  the  Judge  communicated  to  Virginia  and  Magdalene. 

From  this  time  Magdalene's  restless  energies  began  to 
give  her  trouble  again.  And  now,  as  Virginia's  health  and 
cheerfulness  was  fully  restored,  as  there  was  no  hope  of 
Magdalene's  family  acknowledging  her,  as  the  approach  of 
winter  would  certainly  call  the  Washingtons  to  Richmond, 
where  her  presence  must  embarrass  them  more  than  ever, 
Magdalene  determined  to  relieve  them  of  her  company,  and 
herself  of  her  insupportable  ennui,  by  going  ont  into  the 
world  alone,  and  upon  her  own  responsibility.  One  morn- 
ing, therefore,  while  Virginia  was  engaged  with  her  domes- 
tic duties,  Magdalene  entered  the  library  of  Judge  Wash- 
ington, and,  requesting  of  him  the  favor  of  a  few  moments' 
conversation,  announced  her  determination.  This  astonished 
Judge  Washington  the  more,  that  she  seemed  not  for  a 
moment  to  have  considered,  with  a  view  of  being  influenced 
by  it,  what  might  be  Jns  opinion  of  her  proposed  course. 

"  What  motive  urges  you  to  this,  my  dear  ?"  he  inquired 

She  replied,  by  reminding  him  of  the  social  embarrass- 
ment she  caused  his  family.  He  repudiated  that  considera- 
tion altogether  and  instantly,  and  inquired  if  she  had  no 
other  motive  ? 

"  Yes,''  she  replied,  "  the  strong  necessity  of  absorbing 
occupation." 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILDREN.      277 

"  Is  there  not  a  great  field  of  labor  here,  ray  dear  Mag- 
dalene ?  Every  sort  of  labor  —  manual,  mental,  moral? 
Truly  the  harvest  even  here  is  ripe,  but  the  laborers  are 
few." 

"  Change,  excitement,  the  pursuit  of  an  object.  She 
needed  it,  she  must  have  it  at  any  cost,"  she  said. 

"  And  have  you  not  considered  my  approbation  or  dis- 
approbation, my  dear  child  ?" 

Magdalene  told  him  that  she  would  be  deeply  pained  if 
he  disapproved  her  plan ;  that  she  had  not  alluded  to  such 
a  contingency,  because,  having  decided  that  her  purpose 
was  the  best  for  the  happiness  of  all  concerned,  she  had 
fully  determined  to  carry  it  out  before  she  had  thought  of 
mentioning  the  subject  to  any  one. 

"  If  your  own  grandfather,  old  Adam  Hawk,  opposes  it  ?" 

"  It  will  not  turn  me  aside  from  my  object,  dear  sir,  much 
as  I  might  regret  his  opposition." 

"  You  wish,  you  say,  to  be  independent,  to  start  in  life  for 
yourself:  how  do  you  propose  to  do  it?" 

"  First,  I  shall  try  to  get  a  situation  as  governess  in  some 
gentleman's  family,  far  from  the  associations  of  my  child- 
hood, if  possible." 

"  Your  position  would  then  be  very  similar  to  what  it 
now  is,  quite  as  monotonous,  without  the  affection  that  I 
hope  alleviates  all  that  is  painful  in  your  present  situation. 
In  a  month  you  would  be  as  weary  as  you  now  are." 

"Then  I  should  change  it,  sir." 

"  And  then  ?" 

"Change  it  again  and  again,  until  I  found  content 
ment fi 

"  The  Indian  blood,  the  untamed  nature,  the  restless  ener 
gies,  the  vagrant  disposition,"  thought  the  Judge,  and  he 
replied  : 

"  That  will   never  do,   Magdalene.     You  will   not   find 
17 


278  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

rest  to  your  spirit  by  any  such  means ;  and  the  encourage- 
ment of  such  a  disposition  would  utterly  unfit  you  for  ihe 
duties  you  would  assume." 

Magdalene  felt  the  truth  of  this  remark,  but  very  much 
disturbed  in  mind,  she  did  not  reply. 

"  But,  Magdalene,  in  the  event  of  your  failure  to  secure 
a  situation  as  governess,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?" 

Magdalene's  face  flushed  deeply,  and  she  answered  : 

"  I  may  try  my  brush  and  canvas.  You  have  been  so 
partial  as  to  intimate  that  I  am  no  bad  artist." 

"  A  slow  way  of  making  an  independent  living,  however, 
Magdalene,  and  if  it  should  disappoint  you  ?" 

"  Something  else,  then,  sir,"  she  replied,  with  a  deeper 
flush, -then  hastily  added:  "but  I  will  try  the  governess 
first." 

Much  more  the  Judge  said  to  shake  her  purpose,  without 
producing  that  effect. 

Adam  Hawk,  when  he  heard  of  it,  growled  a  great  deal 
against  the  course  proposed,  but  without  stopping  it. 

Virginia  wept  and  pleaded  in  vain. 

Finally,  Magdalene  having,  through  Judge  Washington, 
advertised  for  a  situation,  found  one  in  a  far-distant  Southern 
State,  and  prepared  for  her  departure,  which  was  to  take 
place  at  the  same  time  that  the  family  set  out  for  Richmond 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THEODORE     AND     MAGDALENE. 

"  Imagine  something  purer  far, 

More  free  from  stain  of  clay 
Than  friendship,  love,  or  passion  are, 

Yet  human  still  as  they ; 
And  if  thy  lip  for  lore  like  this, 

No  mortal  word  can  frame, 
Go  ask  of  angels  what  it  is, 

And  call  it  by  that  name."— Jtoore. 

THEODORE  HERVEY  was  still  at  college  when  the  news  of 
Magdalene's  expected  departure  reached  him,  in  a  letter 
from  his  sister.  He  lost  no  time  in  setting  out  for  home. 

One  morning  when  the  Judge  was  in  his  study  arranging 
some  business  with  his  overseer,  previous  to  leaving  home 
for  the  Winter,  and  Virginia  was  in  the  upper  chambers 
superintending  the  folding  and  packing  away  of  the  house- 
linen  in  the  chests  and  presses,  in  which  they  were  to  remain 
until  their  return  in  the  Spring — Magdalene  sat  in  the 
parlor,  putting  the  last  stitches  into  a  little  traveling  hood 
she  was  quilting  for  Virginia,  when  her  attention  was 
attracted  by  the  sound  of  the  light  wheels  of  a  solitaire 
rolling  up  the  carriage  drive.  A  moment  after,  the  door- 
bell was  rung,  and  the  next  instant,  much  to  the  surprise  of 
Magdalene,  "  Mr.  Theodore  Hervey"  was  announced,  and 
immediately  afterward  entered  the  room.  Magdalen 
arose  and  received  him  with  much  cordiality,  expressing 
warmiy  the  pleasure  she  felt  in  seeing  him  once  more  before 
her  departure  from  the  neighborhood.  She  begged  him  to 
be  seated,  saying  that  she  would  immediately  send  for  Vir- 
ginia and  the  Judge,  who  would  be  rejoiced  to  see  him  again 

(279) 


280  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

before  they  left — and  she  was  about  to  ring  for  a  servant, 
when  Theodore,  by  a  gesture,  stayed  her  hand. 

"  No,  if  you  please,  pardon  me  ;  I  wish  to  speak  with  you 
alone,  Magdalene. 

Surprised  at  the  unusual  earnestness  of  his  tone  and 
manner,  Magdalene  resumed  her  seat,  and  turned  to  give 
him  her  full  attention,  and  in  so  doing  noticed,  for  the  first 
time,  that  his  naturally  dark  and  picturesque  style  of  beauty 
was  even  exaggerated  now  in  the  very  pale  and  hollow 
features,  in  the  large  shadowy  eyes,  and  the  highly  intellec- 
tual and  spiritual  expression  of  his  countenance — and  her 
silent  comment  was,  "  He  is  killing  himself  by  this  '  Read- 
ing for  honors.'" 

Theodore  remained  buried  in  thought  for  a  few  minutes, 
as  though  at  a  loss  how  to  open  his  business;  at  length  he 
said, 

"And  so  you  are  to  leave  us  soon,  Magdalene  ?" 

"  Yes,  to-morrow.-" 

11  Yes.  And  I  have  come,  Magdalene,  to  entreat  you  to 
delay  your  journey,  perhaps  to  abandon  it  finally."  He 
paused.  Magdalene,  looked  up  to  hear  more  before  express- 
ing the  quiet  wonder  she  felt.  He  resumed.  "  Magdalene, 
my  father,  Helen,  myself — all  know,  and  appreciate  the 
motive  that  led  you  to  the  formation  of  this  resolution,  and 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  it  pains  us  even  while  we  honor 
you  for  it.  Magdalene  I  bring  you  a  letter  from  my  mother, 
in  which,  expressing  all  the  affection  that  herself  and  our 
whole  family  feel  for  you — she  prays  you  to  come  and  spend 
the  Winter  of  your  friend's  absence,  at  the  parsonage," 
said  he,  as  he  handed  her  the  letter. 

She  received  it,  and  opening,  read  it  to  the  end.  Had 
Magdalene  been  of  the  "melting  mood,''  the  kindness  of 
this  letter  would  have  opened  the  fountain  of  her  tears — as 
it  was,  she  folded  it  up  and  put  it  in  her  pocket  with 


THEODOKE  AND  MAGDALENE.    281 

no  show  of  the  strong  emotion  that  really  stirred  her 
heart. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am,  dear  Theodore," 
she  said. 

"  And  you  will  make  us  all  happy  by  coming,  dear 
Magdalene  ?" 

"  Impossible,  my  friend  !  my  engagement  is  concluded, 
and  my  arrangements  are  all  made ;  besides,  Theodore,  you 
are  mistaken  in  me.  Yon  have  given  me  credit  for  a  dis- 
interested motive.  I  had  also  a  selfish  one.  Theodore,  I 
must  have  change,  action,  excitement,  life !" 

Here  followed  a  controversy  between  Magdalene  and 
Theodore,  very  similar  to  those  that  had  occurred  between 
the  former  and  the  Judge,  and  with,  of  course,  a  similar 
result.  At  the  end  of  this  interview,  Theodore  declining 
to  see  Judge  Washington  or  Virginia,  left  the  house, 
When  he  was  gone,  Magdalene  told  Judge  Washington  of 
the  kind  offer  that  had  been  made  her,  and  showed  Virginia 
the  letter.  The  Judge  advised  and  entreated  his  adopted 
child  to  accept  Mrs.  Hervey's  hospitality  ;  and  Virginia 
cast  her  arras  around  her  neck,  and  weeping,  besought  her 
to  go  to  the  parsonage,  where  they  would  all  know  that  she 
was  safe,  and  hear  from  her  continually.  But  Magdalene 
shook  her  head.  A  comet  might  be  turned  from  its  course 
as  soon  as  this  erratic  being.  In  the  afternoon,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hervey,  with  Helen  and  Theodore,  came  by  a  previous 
appointment,  to  spend  the  last  evening  with  the  Washing- 
tons.  Mrs.  Hervey,  warmly  seconded  by  Helen,  renewed 
her  invitation — which  Magdalene,  deeply  pained,  declined. 
The  afternoon  was  not  half  over,  when  Theodore  requested 
a  private  interview  with  Magdalene,  and  she  received  him 
in  the  library.  He  came  in,  drew  his  chair  to  the  side  of 
Magdalene,  took  her  hand,  and  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
with  excess  of  emotion,  he  said — 


282  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

•'  Magdalene,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  ;  and  if 
there  be  too  great  abruptness  iu  my  speech,  you  will  par- 
don it  for  the  sake  of  the-  strong  affection  and  the  urgent 
necessity  that  constrains  me  to  speak.  Magdalene,  I  ha  ye 
loved  you  since  you  were  a  child.  My  affection  has  grown 
with  my  growth,  and  strengthened  with  my  strength.  I 
have  read  your  heart  with  a  clearness  and  precision  that  no 
one  else,  perhaps,  has  ever  done  ;  and  while  deeply  deplor- 
ing some  things  that  I  see  there,  I  love  you  still,  I  must 
love  you  ever.  I  know  well  that  it  is  the  first  and  last,  the 
only  one  exclusive  love  of  my  whole  life.  It  is  a  part  of 
my  soul.  I  shall  never  lose  it  in  time  nor  in  eternity. 
When  I  left  home  for  college,  it  was  the  parting  with  you 
only  that  grieved  me.  When  I  returned,  it  was  the  meet- 
ing with  you  only  that  rejoiced  me.  I  have — perhaps  with 
culpable  egotism  and  presumption — long  habituated  my- 
self to  consider  you  as  the  lifelong  companion  of  my 
future.  When,  a  few  days  since,  I  received  a  letter  from 
my  sister,  announcing  your  intended  speedy  departure,  I 
then  felt  for  the  first  time  how  much  I  loved  you.  I  felt, 
Magdalene,  that  I  should  not  have  the  courage  to  come 
back  to  the  neighborhood  after  you  were  gone,  to  miss  you 
everywhere.  Well,  Magdalene,  after  passing  a  night  full 
of  anxiety — ah,  you  know  nothing  of  such  sleepless  nights, 
Magdalene — "  He  paused.  A  dark  smile  was  her  only 
comment.  He  resumed  :  "  I  arose  in  the  morning  to  put 
in  execution  a  resolution  I  had  formed.  I  came  down 
here.  I  arrived  late  last  night.  I  opened  my  heart  to  my 
parents,  and  you  know  what  followed,  Magdalene.  Finally, 
I  am  at  your  side,  with  their  full  consent  and  approbation, 
to  offer  you  my  hand,  and  such  a  home  as  my  father's  mod- 
est house  can  afford  my  wife.  Will  you  have  me,  Magda- 
lene ?"  He  pressed  her  hand,  and  paused  for  a  reply,  look- 
ing anxiously,  intently  into  her  half-averted  fa'ce,  until  with 


THEODORE  AND  MAGDALENE.    283 

sudden  self-recollection,  he  flushed  to  the  brow,  and  dropped 
his  eyes. 

•'  Theodore,  I  am  profoundly  grateful  for  this  proof,  a 
confidence  and  affection  that  I  pray  God  I  may  ever  be 
able  to  merit — " 

She  paused  for  words  to  convey  her  rejection  in  tne  most 
delicate  manner.     But  there  was  something  in  her  counte- 
nance that  disturbed  him,  for  he  said  anxiously, 
-"You  do  not  answer  me,  Magdalene." 

She  clasped  his  hand  that  still  held  her  own,  and  replied, 

"Dear  Theodore,  dear  friend,  in  return  for  all  this  that 
you  offer  me,  I  have  only  a  sister's  deep  affection  and  high 
respect  to  give  you." 

"Magdalene,  you  do  not  mean —  Oh  no,  my  God  !"  he 
exclaimed,  dropping  her  hand,  and  growing  very  pale. 
"  Speak  !  say  something  to  me,  Magdalene." 

"  I  say  then,  dear  Theodore,  that  highly  as  I  estimate 
the  honor  you  intend  me,  I  am  forced  to  decline  it." 

"  '  Honor  !'  do  not  mock  me,  Magdalene.  I  have  nothing 
to  offer  you  but  a  true  and  affectionate  heart,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  a  modest  competence  to  be  gained  by  years  of  in- 
dustry and  economy  ;  and  this  I  have  presumed  to  tender 
you  with  startling  abruptness.  You  are  proud,  and  you 
are  somewhat  offended,  and  you  mock  me.  Forgive  me, 
Magdalene,  if  I  have  been  necessariJy  too  hasty  in  this 
Take  time  to  consider.  Only  do  not  leave  us  yet.  Ac- 
cept my  mother's  invitation.  It.  was  prompted  by  a  true 
affection  for  yon.  Do,  Magdalene." 

"  Dear  Theodore,  hear  me :  I  am  deeply  sensible  of 
your  mother's  and  your  own  goodness  to  me  ;  profoundly 
grateful  for  the  proof  of  confidence  and  affection  she  gives 
me  ;  devoutly  thankful  for  the  honor  you  do  me — the  great- 
est honor  you  could  give  me — the  greatest  honor  I  could 
receive  from  any  man  ;  and — "  she  said,  with  impressive 


284       .  <>: .  T  11  ic    i  v  o    *  i  a  T  n  K  3 . 

earnestness,  "well,  perhaps,  ii  would  be  for  tne,  conld  I 
avail  myself  of  it ;  but  it  is  impossible — I  cannot.  I  can 
never  have  the  quiet  happiness  of  being  your  wife,  and  lov- 
ing you  as  your  wife  should.  I  cannot  I  It  is  impossible  !" 
she  said,  iu  a  tone  of  the  very  anguish  of  regret,  as  though 
tlv4)  good  and  evil  of  her  nature  had  suddenly  risen  in  bat- 
tle-array against  each  other,  and  the  good  had  retreated. 
Bnt  this  manner  and  expression,  so  unusual,  so  surprising, 
yet  so  natural — for  she  stood  then  at  the  very  fork  of  the 
road  of  destiny,  and  felt  the  crisis  of  her  fate  acutely — 
passed  quickly  as  a  spasm,  and  she  was  herself  again. 

"  You — you  are  not  engaged,  Magdalene  ?"  he  asked, 
in  a  voice  that  was  momentarily  becoming  more  agitated. 

"  No,  I  am  not  engaged." 

"  You  have  no  suitor,  I  think,  Magdalene  ?" 

"No,"  said  she,  with  a  painful  consciousness  of  having 
suppressed  a  part  of  the  truth. 

"  Then  I  will  still  hope  that  in  time — " 

"No,  indeed  you  must  not  think  of  it,"  said  she,  ear- 
nestly; "for  if  I  am  not  engaged — if  I  have  no  suitor — 
still  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  you  must  indulge  no  falla- 
cious hope  ;  and  yet,"  she  said,  with  a  sneer  at  herself,  "  it 
is  no  great  good  I  forbid  you  to  hope  for." 

"'No  great  good,'  Magdalene? — the  hand  of  one  we 
love!" 

Her  heart  was  stricken  with  a  sudden  pain  by  the  thought 
called  up  by  this  question,  yet  she  did  not  again  lose  the 
"  natural  ruby  of  her  cheek,"  or  the  calmness  of  her  manner, 
as  she  replied, 

"  You  must  forget  this,  dear  Theodore." 

"  1  cannot!  It  is  my  nature  to  remember,  and  to  hope. 
Ah,  Magdalene,  my  life's  star !  I  will  strive,  and  wait, 
and  hope.  I  will  win  thy  heart  by  patience  yet." 

The  vert/  words  she  had  used  in  reference  to  another  ! 


THEODORE  AND  MAGDALENE.    285 

Again  that  sudden,  inexplicable  pang  pierced  her  spirit, 
but  without  betraying  itself  through  those  nerves  of  steel, 
and  muscles  of  marble,  that  scarcely  any  thing  could  disturb, 
but  the  presence,  the  voice,  the  gaze  of  ONE. 

Finding  all  his  arguments  useless  for  the  present,  Theo- 
dore closed  the  interview  by  saying,  while  he  stood  before 
her,  holding  her  hand, 

"My  dearest  Magdalene  !  you  go  out  into  a  life  full  of 
toils,  privations,  humiliations  and  perils  for  one  like  you, 
But  remember  this  !  in  me,  whom  you  will  not  now  accept 
as  a  husband,  you  will  always,  and  under  all  possible 
circumstances,  find  a  friend  and  a  brother.  I  here  pledge 
you  an  affection,  a  devotion,  and  a  fidelity  that  '  neither  life 
nor  death,  nor  things  present  nor  things  to  come,'  shall  be 
able  to  shake.  God  bless  you,  Magdalene  I" 

"  And  you,  Theodore  1" 

So  closed  the  interview. 

After  an  early  tea,  the  Herveys  took  leave  and  departed. 

Early  the  next  morning,  the  family  set  out  in  the  ca- 
pacious traveling  carnage  for  Richmond.  Virginia  was 
in  very  high  spirits,  notwithstanding  the  prospect  of  soon 
parting  from  her  beloved  foster  sister.  The  joyful  antici- 
pation of  meeting  Joseph,  gave  an  impetus  to  her  happy 
temper,  that  nothing  could  check.  They  arrived  at  their 

house  on Street,  at  Richmond,  upon  the  evening  of 

the  second  day.  Joseph's  lodgings  were  in  a  distant  part 
of  the  city,  and  they  had  expected  to  meet  him  waiting  for 
them  at  the  house.  He  was  not  there,  however.  Judge 
Washington  was  obliged  to  convey  Magdalene  to  the  hotel, 
and  place  her  under  the  charge  of  a  gentleman  and  lady 
who  were  going  South  the  next  morning.  He  promised 
Ginnie  to  go  for  Joseph,  and  bring  him  home  with  him  if 
possible.  Though  Magdalene  showed  no  emotion,  Virginia 
wept  freely  at  parting  with  her.  Her  tears  were  soon  dried 


286  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

however,  in  the  excitement  of  expecting  Joseph.  Virginia, 
attended  by  Coral,  went  into  her  room  to  change  her  dress, 
while  Polly  Pepper,  below,  arranged  the  tea-table  against 
the  return  of  Judge  Washington  with  Mr.  Carey.  Ginnie 
came  down  in  a  dress  of  light-blue  prince's  cloth,  with  her 
hair  in  its  usual  glittering  spiral  red  ringlets. 

"Ah,  Polly,  I  am  glad  you  remembered  the  crumpets 
Mr.  Carey  likes  so  well,"  she  said. 

"How  could  I  forget,  when  you  sent  me  so  many 
messages  about  them,  Miss  Ginnie,"  said  she. 

Ginnie  tidgetted  about  the  table,  and  walked  the  floor,  or 
looked  out  at  the  windows,  until  the  carriage  again  rolled  up 
to  the  door,  and  Judge  Washington  alighting,  entered  alone. 

"  Where  is  Joseph,  father  ?"  anxiously  exclaimed 
Virginia. 

"  My  child,  he  is  not  at  his  lodgings.  His  landlady  tells 
me  that  he  left  them  this  afternoon — she  does  not  know  for 
what  destination." 

"  He — he  has  not  left  the  city  ?"  asked  Virginia,  growing 
pale,  and  sinking  into  a  chair. 

"  No,  I  presume  not,  my  love,  we  shall  probably  see  or 
hear  from  him  to-morrow  ;  in  the  meantime,  Ginnie,  my 
dear,  order  supper,"  said  the  Judge,  with  an  effort  to  con- 
quer or  conceal  the  anxiety  that  troubled  him. 

Virginia,  trembling,  sick  to  faintness  with  disappointment 
and  apprehension,  complied. 

The  next  morning  the  postman  stopped  before  the  door, 
and  delivered  letters  for  the  Judge.  Among  them  was  one 
from  Joseph  Carey,  dated  at  Richmond  the  d;iy  before, 
which  the  Judge  opened  and  read  to  himself.  It  ran  thus — 

TficJimnnd,  December  1st,  18-  % 
Mv  DEAR  AND  HONOREB  FRIEND  :— 

I  have  been  striving  with  myself,  long,  sturdily,  but  vamlv. 


THEODORE  AND  MAGDALENE.    287 

I  dare  not  remain  here,  and  meet  Virginia.  The  parting 
with  her  last  Spring  caused  me  and  her  so  much  bitter 
anguish  ;  the  prospect  of  meeting  her  soo-n,  of  spending  the 
Winter  in  her  dear  company,  agitates  me  with  such  a  wild 
ecstaey,  that  I  cannot  venture  to  trust  myself  to  the  trial. 
Bethink  you,  sir,  of  the  days  of  your  own  youth,  and  consider 
the  tremendous  test  to  which  you  would  subject  me — a  test 
I  dare  not  meet.  Enough  !  Yon  come  to  Richmond, 
and  bring  Virginia  to-night.  I  leave  the  city  to-day.  My 
habits  of  severe  economy  have  enabled  me  to  save  money 
enough  for  my  present  small  expenses.  I  go  straight  to 
Boston,  to  join  a  Christian  Mission  about  to  sail  from  that 
port  for  India.  Let  your  blessings  go  with  me,  my  best 
friend!  Convey  my  endless  affection,  and  my  farewell,  to 
Virginia,  at  the  time,  and  in  the  words  you  may  deem  most 
fitting.  I  dare  not  write  to  her.  I  can  scarcely  trust  my- 
self to  write  to  you.  I  do  not  know  that  I  write  cohe- 
rently— for  heart  and  brain  are — not  right !  But,  happy 
or  wretched  ;  present  or  absent ;  sane  or  insane — I  am 
always,  and  under  all  circumstances,  Judge  Washington, 
most  gratefully,  affectionately,  and  faithfully, 

Yours,  JOSEPH    W.    CAREY. 

"  Noble  and  generous  young  man  '  Poor  boy !  poor 
boy  !"  said  the  Judge,  commenting  upon  thu  letter.  "And 
now  to  break  this  to  Virginia."  He  paused  in  thought  a 
long  time,  holding  the  open  letter  behind  his  back,  and 
walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  room.  At  length  he 
ouched  the  bell,  and  when  a  servant  answered  it,  he  said — 
"  Go  and  say  to  Miss  Washington,  that  I  shall  visit  her  in 
her  chamber,  immediately."  And  soon  he  followed  his 
messenger  up-stairs,  to  Virginia's  apartment.  He  found 
his  granddaughter  industriously  working  a  pair  of  slippers. 

"  For  Joseph,  father,"  she  said,  in  reply  tc  his  look  ;  and 


288  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

laying  them  down,  she  wheeled  an  easy-chair  near  the  fire, 
for  him  to  repose  in. 

"I  have  heard  from  Joseph  this  morning,  Virginia, "said 
the  Judge,  quietly  taking  the  seat. 

"  And  he,  father — is  he  well  ?"  exclaimed  she  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  he  is  well." 

"  Thank  Heaven — and  yet,  father,  there  is  something 
in  your  countenance  alarming — what !  what  is  the  mat- 
ter ?" 

"Nothing  alarming,  my  love!  Joseph  has  left  the  city." 

"  Left  the  city,"  she  repeated  calmly.  Her  back  was  to 
the  window,  so  that  he  could  not  see  how  pale  she  had  sud- 
denly grown.  "  Left  the  city,"  she  reiterated. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  loft  the  city,"  continued  the  Judge, 
thoroughly  misled  by  the  very  quietness  of  her  tone — 
though  that  quietness  was  only  the  weakness  of  a  fainting 
heart.  "  Yes,  uiy  dear  child,  my  dear  Virginia,  your  bro- 
ther has  put  in  execution  his  long-cherished  design  of  going 
out  to  India  as  a  Missionary — Virginia !  My  God,  Vir- 
ginia !"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  starting  forward  to  receive 
her  falling  form ;  for,  before  he  had  got  to  the  end  of  his 
sentence,  Virginia  had  thrown  up  both  hands,  taken  a  step 
toward  him,  and  now  he  caught  her,  fainting,  in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

MAGDALENE. 

'  I  see  the  cloud  and  the  tempest  near, 
The  voice  of  the  troubled  tide  I  hear, 
Thy  bo.iom's  bark  on  the  barge  I  see, 
For,  wanderer,  thy  loved  one  is  there  with  thee."— L.  Davitton. 

AT  the  period  of  which  I  write,  traveling  was  of  course 
much  more  tedious  and  inconvenient  than  at  the  present 
day.  Therefore,  although  Magdalene  had  set  out  on  her 
journey  near  the  first  of  December,  it  was  near  Christmas 
when  she  arrived  at  Natchez  with  her  friends,  who,  leaving 
her  at  the  only  hotel  the  little  town  afforded,  proceeded  on 
their  journey  into  the  interior.  Magdalene  wrote  a  letter 
from  her  lodgings  to  Major  Lincoln,  the  cotton-planter,  for 
whose  only  daughter  she  had  been  engaged  as  a  private 
governess. 

The  next  day  while  waiting  in  her  room,  the  chamber- 
maid entered  and  informed  her  that  a  gentleman  was  in  the 
parlor  inquiring  for  her.  Magdalene  sent  down  word  that 
she  would  attend  him  immediately,  and  pausing  only  long 
enough  to  adjust  the  folds  of  her  dark-green  habit,  and 
smooth  the  bands  of  her  rich  black  hair,  she  descended  into 
the  parlor.  As  she  entered,  a  gentleman  somewhat  past 
middle  age,  tall,  handsome,  and  of  erect  military  carriage, 
arose,  and  advancing  to  meet  her,  bowed  low,  saying, 

"Miss  Mountjoy,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Magdalene,  returning  his  salutation. 

"  I  am  Major  Lincoln,  and  am  very  happy  to  meet  you, 
Miss  Mountjoy — permit  me  to  offer  you  a  seat,"  said  the 

(289) 


2^0  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Major,  handing  a  chair  to  our  girl — who  seated  herself  in 
it — and  taking  one  himself.  He  then  entered  into  conver- 
sation with  Magdalene,  deporting  himself  throughout  the 
interview  with  that  suave  and  stately  courtesy  which  dis- 
tinguished the  dignified  old  school,  but  which  the  loose 
familiar  manners  of  the  present  day  would  stigmatize  as 
"stiff."  At  the  close  of  their  interview,  he  said, 

"  As  you  express  yourself  quite  refreshed,  Miss  Monntjoy, 
1  will  order  the  horses  to  the  carriage  immediately,  and  we 
will  set  out  for  Boxwood,  where  my  little  girl  is  awaiting 
her  new  friend  with  great  impatience.  And  bowing  again, 
he  left  the  parlor  to  give  the  necessary  orders,  while  Mag- 
dalene returned  to  her  room  to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  furs. 
She  had  scarcely  completed  this  arrangement,  when  a  porter 
appeared  to  take  down  her  baggage,  and  the  chambermaid 
to  tell  her  that  Major  Line  )ln  was  ready.  She  went  down, 
and  was  conducted  to  the  carriage  by  the  Major,  with  the 
stately  suavity  that  distinguished  his  manners. 

It  was  near  night  when  they  set  out,  and  after  a  drive  of 
about  two  hours  on  a  road  between  the  forest  on  one  side 
and  the  river  on  the  other,  they  turned  into  the  former,  and 
drove  a  couple  of  miles  before  reaching  a  plantation,  in  the 
centre  of  which,  standing  on  a  slight  elevation,  stood  a  very 
shabby-looking  country  house,  of  frame-work,  two  stories 
high,  very  long  in  proportion  to  its  height,  and  surrounded 
with  a  piazza  to  both  stories.  The  lights  that  were  shining 
through  the  lower  windows  gave  an  air  of  cheerfulness  to 
the  place.  The  carriage  entered  the  gate,  rolled  up  toward 
the  house,  and  stopped  before  the  middle  front  door.  Major 
Lincoln  alighted,  handed  out  Magdalene,  and  conducted  her 
into  the  house,  and  by  a  door  to  the  right  into  the  parlor, 
where  a  bright  fire  was  blazing,  a  bright  lamp  burning,  a 
tea-table  waiting,  and  a  little  girl  reading.  The  little  girl 
made  an  impulsive  bound  to  meet  her  father  at  first,  but 


MAGUALENE.  291 

then  with  a  shy  look  retreated  into  her  big  easy-chair. 
Major  Lincoln  led  Magdalene  to  a  seat,  and  then  taking 
the  child's  hand,  brought  her  up,  and  said, 

"  This  is  ray  little  daughter  Lucy,  Miss  Mountjoy,"  and 
stooping  over  the  child,  he  said,  "  Lucy,  this  young  lady  ia 
your  friend  and  instructress — welcome  her !" 

The  little  girl  blushed  deeply,  and  bashfully  and  silently 
held  out  her  hand.  Magdalene  took  it,  drew  her  up  to  her 
knee,  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"  Now  go  and  order  tea,  little  one !"  said  the  Major,  and 
the  child  vanished. 

The  next  day  after  breakfast,  Magdalene  was  introduced 
to  Mrs.  Lincoln,  the  wife  of  the  Major,  and  the  mother  of 
Lucy,  a  lovely  woman,  an  invalid  for  many  years,  who  nov 
seldom  left  her  room. 

"  You  will  find  our  house  not  very  comfortable,  Mis: 
Mountjoy  ;  and  that  indeed  is  the  truth  of  every  planter's 
house  in  this  region  of  country.  The  reason  is,  that  they 
are  scarcely  homes  at  all.  Between  winters  spent  at  New 
Orleans,  or  other  cities,  and  summers  at  the  sea-side,  we 
are  at  home  for  so  short  a  portion  of  the  year,  that  it 
scarcely  presents  a  motive  for  homestead-improvement.  I 
sometimes  wish  it  might  be  otherwise.  Now  in  a  few  days 
we  go  to  New  Orleans  for  the  winter.  We  return  here  in 
April,  and  remain  until  June.  Then  we  go  North,  to  the 
sea-side,  and  stay  until  the  first  of  September.  We  reach 
home  in  October,  and  remain  until  December,  when  we  g<» 
to  the  city  again.  So  passes  our  year.  During  our  absence 
the  plantation  remains  under  the  sole  charge  of  an  overseer, 
and  the  house  under  that  of  a  housekeeper.  When  the  clear- 
ing up  of  the  country  shall  render  our  summers  more  health- 
ful, and  the  interior  improvements  make  the  roads  in  winter 
more  passable,  I  trust  lhat  we  shall  be  enabled  to  pass  mor* 
time  at  home,  and  be  encouraged  to  improve  our  houses ." 


292  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Magdalene  found  in  this  amiable  family  none  of  the 
"toils,  privations,  humiliations,  and  perils,"  with  which  she 
had  been  threatened  by  her  friends  and  well-wishers.  No 
more  finished  "gentleman  of  the  old  school"  could  any- 
where have  been  found  than  Major  Lincoln ;  no  more 
amiable  lady  of  any  school,  than  Mrs.  Lincoln ;  no  more 
gentle  and  endearing  child,  than  Lucy  Lincoln,  whose 
delicate  health — she  inherited  her  mother's  fragility  of  con- 
stitution— induced  her  parents  to  keep  her  at  home,  and 
engage  a  governess  to  educate  her,  rather  than  send  her 
abroad.  Soon  after  Magdalene's  arrival,  the  family  went 
to  New  Orleans,  to  spend  the  remainder  of  the  winter. 
Though  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  gayest  cities  in  the 
Union,  they  entered  into  few  of  its  gayeties.  Once  or 
twice,  Major  Lincoln  took  Magdalene  to  the  theatre,  to 
which  amusement  she  was  passionately  devoted.  In  the 
spring  they  returned  to  Boxwood,  where  they  spent  the 
three  most  beautiful  months  in  the  year  for  that  region  of 
country.  Never  had  Magdalene  seen  so  charming  a  country 
as  Mississippi  in  April,  May,  and  June ;  and  she  earnestly 
echoed  the  phrase  of  its  people — "The  Eden  of  the  South." 

In  June,  when  the  weather  began  to  be  very  oppressive, 
they  set  out  for  the  North,  and  about  the  first  of  July, 

arrived  at  Cape ,  then  first  becoming  the  resort  of 

health  or  pleasure-seeking  visitors.  It  was,  as  yet,  early  in 
the  season,  and  the  place  was  comparatively  vacant  of  com- 
pany. Our  party  enjoyed  themselves  the  more  upon  this 
account,  for  Mrs.  Lincoln  was  too  delicate,  Lucy  too  young, 
and  Magdalene's  social  position  too  undefined  to  make  it 
agreeable  to  mix  much  in  society.  As  the  season  advanced, 
however,  the  place  became  crowded  with  company.  Morn- 
ing and  evening  they  rode  or  drove  back  into  the  country, 
or  walked  by  the  sea-side.  They  had  been  there  more  than 
pix  weeks,  and  Magdalene  was  beginning  to  fool  the  mo- 


w  A  G  i'  A  L  I-:N  E.  2'.'3 

tions  of  those  restless  energies,  that  latent  Indian  nature 
which  forbade  her  to  be  quiet  anywhere  for  any  length  of 
time,  when  one  evening  she  set  out  for  a  solitary  ramble  on 
the  beach.  Up  and  down  she  wandered  until  twilight  was 
darkening  into  night,  her  morose,  half-savage  mood,  soothed 
by  the  monotonous,  deep,  low  thunder  of  the  great  ocean  on 
the  coast.  Up  and  down  she  wandered  unmindful  of  the 
gathering  darkness,  or  the  comments  that,  might  be  made 
upon  her  long  absence  at  that  late  hour,  thinking  of  one. 
Not  with  regret,  not  with  doubt,  not  with  anxiety,  but  with 
a  deep  and  intense  prophetic  conviction  of  happiness  mysti- 
cally blended  with  darkest  doom.  Up  and  down  she 
wandered,  until  a  deep-toned  voice,  at  her  side  said, 

"Magdalene. " 

She  did  not  start  or  exclaim,  though  her  very  heart  stood 
still,  as  Sir  Clinton  Carey  paused  at  her  side  and  raised  her 
hand  to  his  lips.  He  led  her  a  few  steps  onward  to  a  pile 
of  rocks,  seated  her  thereon  and  stood  before  her.  She  bad 
not  spoken  yet. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  see  me  here,  Magdalene  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"And—glad  !» 

"  Oh  yes  !  yes  !" 

He  sat  down  by  her  side,  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

"  You  think  this  meeting  a  '  singular  coincidence,'  Mag- 
dalene?" 

"No,  I  do  not  think  sol  I  think  that  you  knew  I  was 
here  and  sought  me." 

"You  are  right,  but  how  knew  I  that  you  were  here,  my 
Magdalene  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  certainly;  I  think  possibly  that  you  have 
never  lost  sight  of  me  yet." 

"  You  are  right  again.  Mairdalene — a  frequent  and 
18 


294:  T  H  K     TWO     SIS  T  E  II  S  . 

regular  correspondence  with  Judge  Washington  hns  kept 
me  advised  of  the  external  circumstances  of  your  lite,  «mJ 
in  them,  Magdalene,  I  have  read  that  which  others  have 
not  dreamed,"  and  again  he  drew  her  within  his  arms  and 
rested  her  burning  face  upon  his  bosom.  "  Now  for  my 
secret,  Magdalene.  You  have  been  with  me  everywhere  ; 
in  the  city,  in  the  ship  ;  in  the  calm,  and  in  the  storm ;  on 
the  sea,  and  in  port;  in  the  Babel  of  great  London,  and 
in  the  solitude  of  my  remote  native  hills  you  have  haunted 
me.  Never  has  your  form  and  face  been  absent  from  my 
side ;  never  has  your  voice  ceased  to  make  strange,  sweet 
music  in  my  ears ;  never  have  your  darkly-vailed  bright 
eyes  withdrawn  their  glances  from  mine  !  Never — night 
or  day — sleeping  nor  waking,  have  you  left  me  !  Magda- 
lene, why  have  you  pursued,  chained  and  brought  me  back  ? 
Do  not  defend  yourself!  Do  not  tell  me  that  you  were  far 
distant  in  Mississippi  while  I  was  on  the  sea  or  in  England ! 
That  you  never  wrote  to  me — never  spoke  of  me.  You 
thought  of  me.  You  dreamed  of  me  1  You  loved  me ! 
You  wanted  me!  You  followed  me  in  the  mighty  strength 
of  your  spirit !  You  have  recaptured  the  fugitive,  and  he 
is  at  your  feet !  Do  with  him  as  you  please,  Magdalene  ! 
It  is  such  a  worn-out  phrase  to  say  '  I  love  you  !'  that  I 
/want  you  more  than  all  else  the  world  or  heaveu  can  offer 
me — that  I  prize  you  more  than  life  !  Oh,  this  has  been 
said  by  millions  of  men  to  women,  not  one  of  whom  ever 
felt  a  tithe  of  the  power  that  has  vanquished  me  !  Magda- 
lene, speaK  to  me." 

But  she  could  not  have  spoken,  with  all  her  self-command 
she  could  not  have  spoken,  had  her  soul  depended  on  it. 

"Magdalene,  my  destiny  !  answer  me  1" 

She  put  both  hands  in  his,  and  dropped  her  head  upon 
bis  shoulder. 

"  Magdalene  1"  he  whispered,  between  many  soft  caresses. 


MAGDALENE.  295 

"  Magdalene,  I  have  somewhat  to  say  to  thee — but  not 
now  !"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

The  loud  ringing  of  the  last  supper-bell  aroused  both 
from  their  forgetful  ness,  and  they  arose  simultaneously  to 
return  to  the  house,  when  Sir  Clinton,  laying  his  hand  upon 
Magdalene's,  said, 

"  Magdalene,  my  love,  listen  to  me !  And  in  spite  of 
all  the  strangeness  of  what  I  am  about  to  say  to  you — be- 
lieve in  me — will  you,  can  you,  Magdalene  ?" 

"  As  in  heaven  !     Yes  !" 

"  Then  this  is  what  I  have  to  say  to  you.  You  must 
not  recognize  me  in  this  place  at  all  I  Do  you  understand 
me,  Magdalene  ?" 

"  I  understand  your  words,  but  not  the  reason  for  them." 

"  You  shall  know  the  reason  soon,  Magdalene  1  and,  for 
the  present,  you  will  oblige  me  in  this  ?" 

"  Assuredly." 

"  And  yon  will  not  suspect  me  ?" 

"When  I  do,  Sir  Clinton,  I  will  renounce  you,"  said  she, 
as  she  bowed  and  walked  toward  the  house,  leaving  him 
aLone  upon  the  sands.  She  entered  the  house  and  seated 
herself  at  the  supper-table  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  wrong, 
degradation,  and  danger. 

And  yet  Magdalene  could  not  be  angry  with  him — proud 
as  she  really  was,  humiliating  as  his  manner  toward  her  at 
limes  certainly  was,  she  could  not  be  angry  with  him.  She 
wondered  at  herself  for  this  !  She  wondered  if  any  thing 
on  earth  that  he  could  say  or  do,  could  raise  a  single  vin- 
dictive feeling  in  her  heart.  It  was  because  she  loved  and 
trusted  him  througn  all  things  and  beyond  all  things.  Aye, 
Sir  Clinton  Carey,  bring  her  high  spirit  low  1  trample  her 
pride  in  the  dust !  set  your  heel  upon  her  neck  :  she  has 
no  pride  for  you.  She  will  bear  it  all ;  and  when  you  tell  her 
that  you  love  her,  she  will  believe  your  word  against  a  thou- 


296  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

sand  facts.  Yes,  but  once  outrage  and  utterly  betray  her 
love  !  and  you  had  better,  alone  and  unarmed,  have  met  a 
lioness  in  her  forest  walk  than  Magdalene  in  her  roused 
wrath. 

The  next  morning  early  Magdalene  was  walking  on  the 
beach,  when  Sir  Clinton  Carey  again  joined  her.  He  in- 
vited her  to  sit  upon  the  rocks,  and  placing  himself  beside 
her,  took  her  hand — 

"  My  dearest  Magdalene,  I  told  you,  did  I  not,  that  I 
had  somewhat  to  say  to  you." 

"Yes." 

"  Listen  then,  Magdalene.  Your  heard  me  say  upon  the 
morning  that  I  left  you  at  Prospect  Hall,  that  I  was  poor, 
very  poor,  did  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Magdalene,  in  a  low  voice,  for  a  vague  pain 
seized  her  heart. 

"  Hear  me  further  upon  this  subject,  my  child,  my  dear 
child  1"  he  said,  drawing  her  to  his  heart.  "  Like  the  un- 
just steward  of  the  New  Testament,  I  cannot  work — to  beg 
I  am  ashamed.  I  am  poor  still,  Magdalene  ;  and  the  only 
prospect  of  better  fortune  is  a  wealthy  marriage,  or  the 
continued  favor  of  an  aged  and  rich  relative,  whose  heir  I 
am,  but  whose  favor  and  fortune  I  should  alike  lose  by  con- 
tracting what  he  would  consider  an  ill-advised  matrimonial 
engagement — are  you  listening  to  me,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes/'  said  Magdalene,  in  a  dying  voice.  He  drew 
her  hand  up  over  his  shoulder,  and  stooping,  looking  ten- 
derly in  her  eyes,  whispered  in  a  lulling,  soothing  voice, 

"  Will  you  go  to  England  with  me  ?  Will  you  trust  me 
with  your  happiness,  your  honor  ?" 

Magdalene  snatched  her  hand  away  as  though  a  serpent 
had  stung  it ;  flushed  crimson,  turned  deadly  pale,  arose 
and  staggered  from  him — and  would  have  fallen,  but  that 
he  was  at  her  side  again  in  a  moment,  and  leading  her  back 


MAGDALENE.  297 

seated  her  upon  the  rock,  and  dropping  upon  one  knee  took 
her  hand,  aud  while  his  face  was  flushed,  said,  in  a  voice 
faltering  with  strangulation — "  Magdalene,  you  have  mis- 
apprehended me  ;  most  cruelly  misapprehended  me.  For 
what  in  the  name  of  God  do  you  take  me,  Magdalene  ? 
Magdalene,  say  that  you  trust  me  !  Say  that  you  will  con- 
sent to  a  secret  marriage,  and  go  with  me  to  England. 
Talk,  Magdalene  !"  His  energy  of  manner — her  own  pas- 
sions, or  both,  mastered  her  ;  recovering  herself,  she  said, 

"  Sir  Clinton,  speak  to  me  always  plainly,  I  beseech  you. 
I  speak  very  plainly.  And  my  words  never  admit  of  two 
constructions — pardon  me  1  I  do  not  understand  my  own 
emotions,  my  own  utter  loss  of  self-government — almost 
utter  loss,  not  quite — for  now,  even  now,  in  this  moment  of 
great  agitation,  I  will  not  give  you  a  reply  ;  I  am  disturbed 
I  must  get  quiet — I  am  heated,  I  must  get  cool — I  am  mad 
indeed,  and  I  must  get  sane  !  Leave  me — or  suffer  me  to 
go!" 

"Foolish  and  tormenting  girl !  For  what  reason  do  you 
wish  time  to  consider  of  this  ? — you  have  no  parents  to  dis- 
obey or  forsake,  no  relatives  to  grieve." 

"I  have  a  storm  in  my'own  soul  to  still,  though  !" 

And  she  arose  and  walked  toward  the  house.  Not  until 
the  next  morning  did  she  lay  her  hand  within  that  of  Sir 
Clinton  Carey,  and  say  : 

"  I  will  go  with  you." 

Their  arrangements  were  quickly  and  quietly  completed. 
Magdalene  signified  her  wish  to  quit  her  present  situation 
at  the  end  of  the  ensuing  term,  which  would  bring  also  the 
end  of  the  season  at  Cape .  The  company  were  leav- 
ing daily,  for  the  last  week  in  August  had  come,  and  upon 
the  first  of  September  Magdalene  bade  farewell  to  her 
friends,  and  set  out  for  Norfolk  under  the  escort  of  a  gen- 
tleman and  lady  who  were  traveling  thither,  aud  who  iu 


203  THE     T  \T  0     S  I  D  T  K  R  S 

* 

their  turn  placed  her  for  the  remainder  of  her  journey  in 
the  care  of  a  fellow-passenger,  whom  they  had  known  ar  the 
Cape,  and  who  was  no  other  than  Sir  Clinton  Carey.  It 
was  at  a  small  village  some  few  miles  out  of  Norfolk  that 
Sir  Clinton  Carey  and  Magdalene  Mountjoy  pledged  to 
each  other  those  vows  that  nothing  but  death  could  annul. 
The  only  witnesses  of  this  marriage  were  the  confidential 
servant  of  Sir  Clinton,  and  a  young  girl  recently  engaged 
as  a  traveling  maid  for  Magdalene.  Immediately  after  the 
ceremony  they  returned  to  Norfolk,  from  whence  they  sailed 
the  next  morning  for  England. 

One  thing  only  troubled  Magdalene  on  her  voyage  out. 
It  was  this.  During  the  many  months  of  her  connection 
with  the  Lincolns,  she  had  written  many  letters  to  Virginia  ; 
to  none  of  which  had  she  received  any  reply.  At  length 
she  had  written  to  Judge  Washington,  and  had  received  a 
letter,  long  after  its  date — for  it  had  followed  her  around 
the  country — in  which  she  learned  that  Virginia  had  been 
very  ill,  was  very  slowly  recovering,  and  was  then  residing 
at  the  Sunny  Isle..  Again,  before  leaving  the  Lincolns, 
Magdalene,  anxious  for  later  intelligence,  had  written  to 
the  Judge ;  but  though  she  had  waited  long  for  his  answer, 
it  had  not  arrived  up  to  the  day  of  her  sailing — and  now 
ehe  felt  that  there  rolled  between  them  an  ocean  of  fate 
wider  than  the  Atlantic, 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

NEW     LIFE. 

"A  new  life,  like  a  yonnff  sunrise,  break* 
On  the  strange  unrest  of  thy  night." — Browning. 

MAGDALENE'S  happiness  was  not  long  qualified  by  i egret 
for  those  she  loved,  yet  had  left.  She  knew  precisely  how 
it  was,  and  how  it  would  be,  with  her  friends,  in  their 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  actions  toward  herself.  She  knew 
that  Judge  Washington  and  Virginia  would  write  to  her 
again  and  again,  and  that  their  letters  would  remain  un- 
answered. She  knew  that,  alarmed  at  her  continued  silence, 
they  would  write  to  Major  or  Mrs.  Lincoln,  and  that  then 
an  eclaircissement  would  occur,  filling  both  parties  with  as- 
tonishment, grief,  and  dismay ;  that  Major  Lincoln,  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  she  had  not  returned  to  the  protection 
of  her  friends,  would  write  and  tell  Judge  Washington  when, 
where,  and — as  far  as  he  knew — under  what  circumstances 
Magdalene  had  left  his  family  ;  that  Judge  Washington, 
grieved  and  alarmed,  would  instantly  set  on  foot  an  inquiry 
to  find  the  clue  to  her  fate,  which,  owing  to  the  strict  pre- 
cautions taken,  would  fail ;  that,  finally,  their  sorrow  and 
anxiety  would  yield  to  time,  or  to  the  conviction  that  its 
object  was  dead,  or,  what  was  worse,  utterly  lost  and  un- 
worthy to  live.  But,  until  then,  how  much  from  suspense 
they  must  suffer !  How  much,  from  sympathy  with  them, 
must  she  herself  suffer!  But,  in  respect  to  the  extent  and 
duration  of  her  own  trouble,  Magdalene  was  mistaken. 
Soon  she  felt  that  all  regret,  remorse,  and  grief — every 

(299) 


300  TUB     TWO     SISTERS. 

emotion  and  thought — was  swallowed  up  in  one  infinite 
contentment.  The  old,  scornful  maxim  that  "  Marriage  is 
the  bane  of  love,"  was  utterly  refuted  iu  the  case  of  Magda- 
lene and  of  Clinton.  Every  day,  as  they  knew  each  other 
more,  they  loved  each  other  better,  and  were  happier  in 
their  mutual  love.  Their  happiness  seemed  a  constantly 
increasing  good.  How  Clinton  was  changed  since  their 
marriage !  Had  he  been  egotistical,  arrogant,  and  capri- 
cious before  ?  No  lover  could  be  more  disinterested,  de- 
voted, and  constant  than  he  was  now.  There  was  some- 
thing almost  deprecating  in  his  service  of  her.  And  as  for 
Magdalene,  her  heart  ached  with  the  fullness  of  her  grati- 
tude, love,  and  joy;  and  this  excess  of  life  took  a  strange 
turn. 

It  was  September,  and  the  voyage  out  was,  in  almost 
every  respect,  delightful.  When  out  of  sight  of  land,  the 
vast  panorama  of  the  unbounded  waters  aroused  all  the 
power,  and  the  sublime  splendor  of  the  rising  and  setting 
sun  at  sea  kindled  all  the  fire  of  Magdalene's  strong  and 
ardent  enthusiasm  ;  and  this  stimulated  passion  for  the  sub- 
lime and  terrific  excited  a  desire  to  be  in  the  midst  of  a 
great  storm  at  sea.  She  felt  that  her  own  strong,  energetic 
and  half-savage  spirit  would  revel  alike  amid  the  wild  war- 
fare of  winds  and  waves,  and  amid  the  powerful  emotions 
of  terror,  grief  and  despair  they  would  excite  in  men.  And 
so,  in  a  moment  of  gay  confidence,  she  told  Sir  Clinton, 
with  a  kindling  cheek  and  a  flashing  eye.  He  enjoyed  to 
the  quick  the  freshness  of  her  joy,  laughed  almost  aloud, 
and,  caressing  her,  exclaimed, 

"Oh,  Magdalene,  with  what  newness  of  life  you  inspire 
me  !  How  I  shall  delight  to  go  over  the  Continent  with 
you  I  To  see  those  fine  eyes  of  yours  soar  up  to  the  top 
of  Mount  Blanc,  and  blaze  in  the  light  of  the  glaciers  I  To 
see  those  cheeks  and  lips  of  yours  glow  under  the  refulgent 


N  H  W     LIFE.  301 

Bkies  of  Italy ;  and  that  earnest,  fervent  soul  of  yours  full 
into  one  of  its  profound  and  beautiful  reveries  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  old  world's  grandeur !  Oh,  Magdalene,  to  take 
a  beautiful,  intellectual,  and  ardent  country  girl  to  see  the 
wonders  of  the  old  world — what  a  new  sense  of  existence 
is  in  that !" 

But  iii  the  matter  of  the  desired  storm  at  sea,  Magdalene's 
destructive  sublimity  of  mood  was  not  destined  to  be  grati- 
fied at  so  costly  a  price.  The  voyagers  were  favored  with 
a  fast-sailing  vessel,  fine  weather,  and  fair  winds,  and  they 
made  the  trip  in  something  less  than  a  month. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  record  minutely  the  life  of  Mag- 
dalene and  of  Clinton  for  the  next  few  months.  They 
landed  at  Liverpool,  but  without  staying  in  England,  im- 
mediately took  passage  across  the  Channel  to  set  out  upon 
their  continental  tour.  They  passed  the  remaining  autumn 
months  of  October  and  November  in  Germany  and  Switz- 
erland ;  and  her  awe  and  enthusiasm  among  the  stupendous 
Alpine  precipices,  and  her  admiration  of  the  sublime  and 
beautiful  scenery  and  gray  old  ruins  on  the  Rhine,  came  up 
to  his  highest  expectations,  and  refreshed  and  renewed  him 
like  a  bath  in  the  fountain  of  youth.  Early  in  December 
they  journeyed  southward  toward  Italy  ;  and  here  her  deep 
interest  in  the  magnificent  records  of  the  ancient  world 
brought  back,  conjured  back  the  days  of  his  own  first  ar- 
dent enthusiasm  ;  and  he  never  wearied  of  making  a  ruin, 
a  relic,  a  picture,  or  a  statue  the  theme  of  history,  tradition 
or  poetry,  to  give  it  a  deeper  interest  in  her  heart.  And 
Magdalene  felt  how  kind,  beyond  a  lover's  or  a  husband' 
kindness,  was  this  perfect  sympathy,  this  never-wearying 
devotion  ;  and  she  fell  that  her  whole  soul's  gratitude  and 
love,  great  as  it  was,  was  insufficient  for  bis  merits. 

They  went  to  Sicily,  and  here,  under  sunny  skies  and 
amid  luxuriant  landscapes,  in  a  palazzo  where  all  that 


302  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

wealth,  taste,  and  love  of  luxury  could  create,  were  com- 
bined in  a  terrestrial  paradise,  they  passed  the  winter. 
And  here,  in  this  luxurious  retirement,  Magdalene  disco- 
vered every  day  new  and  surprising  beauiies  and  attractions 
in  a  heart  and  mind  seldom  equaled  for  depth  and  strength 
of  passion,  force,  and  originality  of  thought,  and  for  power 
and  splendor  of  expression.  Every  day  she  admired  and 
loved  him  more,  until  her  love  and  admiration  verged  upon 
adoration^  worship,  idolatry ;  and  the  longer  she  contem- 
plated her  image  of  clay,  the  brighter,  diviner  it  became 
in  her  eyes.  She  thought  with  a  secret  joy  how  opposite 
her  case  was  to  that  of  most  other  women,  who  saw  at  first 
only  what  was  best,  and  often  what  was  false  in  their  lov- 
ers, and  had  nothing  left  but  faults  to  discover  and  illu- 
sions to  mourn.  She  had  seen  his  faults  at  first,  and  loved 
him  in  despite  of  them  ;  and  now  those  faults  had  seemed 
to  pass  away,  leaving  his  character  all  bright  and  clear, 
while  new  excellencies  were  revealing  themselves  continually. 
She  never  questioned  the  reality  of  this  change — never  in- 
quired whether  he  were  not  at  heart  the  same — whether  it 
were  not  the  difference  in  her  position  that  made  the  differ- 
ence in  his  deportment — whether  he  did  not  consider  the 
difference  in  station  between  Sir  Clinton  Carey's  wife  and 
the  overseer's  grandchild  quite  wide  enough  to  warrant  any 
distinction  in  manner.  She  never  questioned  or  caviled  at 
any  thing  he  said  or  did  now.  She  was  too  happy  to  specu- 
late upon  her  happiness.  This  was,  altogether,  the  most- 
delightful  winter  she  had  ever  spent  in  the  whole  course  of 
her  life. 

Early  in  the  spring  they  left  their  Sicilian  "  Garden  of 
Eden,"  with  much  regret  on  Magdalene's  side.  They  went 
to  Paris,  where  Magdalene  soon  found  herself  the  centre  of 
a  brilliant  circle  of  poets,  wits,  and  philosophers,  of  both 
sexes,  whose  attractive  charui  of  manner,  brilliancy  of  con- 


NEW     LIFE.  303 

versation,  startling  originality  of  thought,  and  daring  spec- 
ulations,  would  have  fascinated  and  carried  away  a  mind 
less  stern  and  inflexible  than  was  that  of  our  "  Indian  girl," 
in  all  cases  where  her  •  heart  was  not  concerned.  Often 
after  some  evening  spent  in  such  a  circle,  when  her  intellect 
had  been  aroused  and  excited,  at  the  same  time  that  all  her 
preconceived  opinions  and  all  her  cherished  early  ideas  had 
been  startled  from  their  propriety,  and  she  had  staggered 
under  the  shock  of  some  powerful  new  impression,  she  would 
seek  Clinton,  and  in  the  sanctuary  of  confidence  speak  of 
these  subjects,  and  he,  with  a  smile  half  paternal,  half  lover- 
like,  would  caress  her,  and  express  himself  glad  that  she 
was  not  "frightened  ;"  for  so  he  would  continue  to  inter- 
pret the  unchanging  cheek,  unfaltering  voice,  and  perfect 
quietude  of  manner  with  which  she  would  speak,  and  which 
was  owing,  not  to  deficiency  of  moral  emotion,  but  to  a 
superabundance  of  physical  strength.  Magdalene  was 
"frightened,"  but  by  the  only  phantom,  real  or  imaginary, 
that  could  possibly  frighten  her,  namely,  the  doubt,  the 
fear  of  her  future  happiness  with  him ;  and  so,  in  her  per- 
fect candor,  she  told  him  one  night.  She  remembered  that 
night  all  her  life  long.  They  were  sitting  on  a  sofa  in  her 
chamber.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  neck,  and  drew  her 
head  down  upon  his  bosom,  and  gazed  long  and  deeply,  as 
though  he  would  have  read  her  soul — as  though  he  would 
have  sent  his  piercing  glance  deep  into  the  profound 
abysses  of  her  spirit — the  terra  incognita  of  even  her  own 
self-knowledge — and  searched  for  her  yet  unknown  and  un- 
developed character,  and  prophesied  of  her  future.  His 
eyes  expressed  in  turn  sorrow,  pity,  TERROR,  as  he  gazed 
with  delating  pupils,  and  .slowly  withdrew  them,  exclaiming, 
in  a  deep  voice — 

"  My  God,  Magdalene,  if  I  have  been  mistaken  in  you 
all  this  time !     If,  in  willing  you  the  greatest  good,  I  have 


304  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

done  you  the  greatest  harm  I"  and  he  put  her  from  his 
bosom,  and  walked  about  awhile,  in  great  trouble. 

That  was  the  first  painful  impression  Magdalene  had  ever 
received  from  him,  and,  I  had  nearly  said,  the  last.  From 
that  time  he  became,  if  possible,  still  more  devoted  to  her 
happiness.  Every  thing  that  the  most  solicitous  affection 
could  inspire  was  done  for  her.  Before  their  marriage, 
he  had  said  that  he  was  "poor,  very  poor,"  yet  now 
there  seemed  no  want  of  money,  or  sparing  of  expense ; 
every  thing  that  imagination  could  suggest,  and  wealth 
purchase,  was  procured  for  her.  To  Magdalene  there  was 
something  almost  painful  in  this  excess  of  solicitude.  It 
made  her  feel  as  if  she  were  foredoomed  to  some  unhappy 
fate.  It  so  resembled  the  self-sacrificing  devotion  we  give 
to  the  dying,  or  those  soon  to  die.  And  Magdalene  felt 
that  neither  for  declining  health,  or  ensuing  calamity,  did 
she  need  so  much  care. 

It  was  September  again,  just  one  year  from  the  anniver- 
sary of  their  marriage,  when  one  day  Sir  Clinton  Carey 
came  into  the  room  where  she  was  awaiting  him,  and  laying 
a  packet  of  letters  on  the  table,  sat  down  and  called  her  to 
him.  She  came  and  sat  upon  his  knee,  with  one  arm 
around  his  neck,  while  he  opened  the  packet ;  but  then,  as 
by  a  second  thought,  he  said  : 

"  You  will  not  care  to  hear  the  letter  read,  Magdalene  : 
the  news  is,  that  my  relative,  Lord  Cliffe,  is  in  extremity, 
and  his  lawyer,  who  is  also  mine,  has  written  for  me  to 
come  instantly  to  London.' 

"  And  you  go  to-morrow  ;  perhaps  to-day  ?"  questioned 
Magdalene. 

"  Not  so,  my  dear.  I  must  see  you  comfortably  provided 
for,  first ;  for  of  course  you  know,  my  dear  Magdalene,  that 
under  all  the  lircumstances,  I  cannot  take  you  to  England 


NEW     L  I  F  K  .  305 

"  I  suppose  not,"  admitted  Magdalene,  with  a  sigh,  and 
an  enforced  smile ;  "  but,  dearest,  never  mind  my  comfort. 
You  care  too  much  for  my  comfort,  too  little  for  your  own, 
and  for  other  people's  interest.  Go  at  once.  Leave  Paris 
to-morrow — to-night,  because  a  day's  procrastination  may 
close  the  opportunity  of  your  ever  seeing  your  aged  relative 
again,  and  the  wishes  of  the  dying  should  be  commands. 
Go  to-night,  or  you  never  may  see  him  again.  Me  you  can 
afterward  see.  1  am  young,  and  have  indestructible  health, 
and  shall  live  to  please  or  to  plague  you  half  a  century  or 
more  yet.  Come,  I  release  you.  Go  at  once,  and  send  for 
me  as  soon  as  you  can." 

He  bent  his  head  over  her,  and  shuddered  as  he  strained 
her  to  his  bosom,  and  his  voice  faltered,  as  he  said  : 

"  No,  Magdalene,  I  cannot  leave  you  in  this  place.  I 
shall  not  leave  Paris  for  several  days  yet." 

Nor  could  she  persuade  him  to  do  so ;  nor  did  she  much 
regret  his  inflexibility  upon  this  point. 

We  often  think  it  our  duty  to  urge  a  person  to  a  certain 
course  of  conduct,  which,  nevertheless,  we  cannot  help  hoping 
they  will  not  pursue. 

All  the  next  day  Sir  Clinton  Carey  was  engaged  in  busi- 
ness. On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  he  came  into  Mag- 
dalene's boudoir,  and  invited  her  to  take  a  drive.  She  was 
soon  ready  ;  and  he  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  conducted 
her  down-stairs,  and  placed  her  in  the  carriage  that  was 
waiting  before  the  door,  stepped  in  after  her,  seated  himself 
by  her  side,  and  gave  the  direction  to  the  coachman.  They 
were  driven  through  the  city,  and  out  some  distance  into 
the  country,  until  the  carriage  was  drawn  up  before  the  gate 
of  a  small,  but  elegant  villa,  of  white  marble,  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Seine.  The  driver  alighted,  opened  the  door, 
and  let  down  the  steps.  Sir  Clinton  Carey  stepped  out 
and  handed  out  Magdalene,  who  looked  inquiringly  in  hi* 


806  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

^ace,  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  and  led  her  into  the 
nouse. 

"Are  you  fatigued,  Magdalene  ?"  he  inquired,  gently,  as 
they  entered  the  house. 

She  looked  up  with  a  queer  smile — "  When  was  I  ever, 
Clinton?" 

"  Then  I  will  take  you  at  once  over  the  house,  and  I  want 
you  to  criticise  its  appointments.  It  belongs  to  a  dear 
friend  of  mine,  for  whose  residence  I  have  fitted  it  up. 
Come,"  and  taking  her  hand,  he  conducted  her  through  the 
suits  of  splendidly-furnished  rooms.  "  Now,  Magdalene, 
what  is  still  wanted  to  perfect  this  ?"  said  he,  as  they  sat 
down  together  on  a  sofa  in  a  beautiful  boudoir. 

"  But  one  thing." 

"  What  ?     It  shall  be  procured  if  the  earth  possesses  it." 

"Do  not  make  rash  promises.  This  home  wants,  to 
perfect  it,  a  master  and  a  mistress  who  love  each  other  as 
we  do..  Is  your  friend  married  ?" 

"  Are  you  married,  Magdalene  ?  For  this  house  is 
yours. " 

Magdalene  was  perplexed  as  well  as  gratified  by  this 
announcement.  She  wondered  that  Sir  Clinton  should 
purchase  a  villa  just  as  they  were  upon  the  point  of  leaving 
France,  and  with  her  usual  frankness  she  expressed  this. 

"  It  may  be  many  months  before  the  settlement  of  my 
business  in  England  enables  me  to  send  for  you,  Magda- 
lene. In  the  meantime  I  wish  you  to  be  perfectly  comfort- 
able here.  This  villa  is  a  very  desirable  piece  of  property, 
and  a  very  delightful  place  of  residence.  It  is  within  an 
easy  drive  of  the  Tuilleries  ;  and  if  we  come  to  Paris  another 
year,  it  will  be  pleasant  to  have  this  home." 

"  And  I  am  the  friend  for  whom  you  furnished  it,"  said 
Ma<rdnlene. 

"  Yes ;  I  would   not  tell  you  at  first,  dearest,  because  I 


N  E  W     L  I  F  E  307 

knew  that  in  that  case  yon  would  not  name  any  defect  that 
you  might  see — I  thought  possibly  you  might,  if  you  were 
left  to  suppose  that  the  house  was  furnished  for  another. 
I  am  rejoiced  that  you  like  it,  dear,  for  you  do,  do  you 
not  ?"  he  inquired,  caressingly. 

"  Clinton,  you  overwhelm  me  with  kindness.  You  put 
me  down  and  silence  me.  I  have  absolutely  nothing  to  say 
that;  would  not  be  disgracefully  inadequate  to  express  my 
feeling  of  your  goodness." 

"  Yes,  I  am  good  in  some  things,  and  God  knows,  my 
dear,  I  hope  and  trust  that  you  may  continue  to  think  so. 
[  have  willed  your  largest  life  and  greatest  happiness, 
Magdalene.  I  have  studied  and  labored  for  it  day  and 
night,  with  a  burning  heart  and  throbbing  brain,  even  when 
I  seemed  not  to  see  you,  Magdalene.  I  have  schemed  and 
plotted  for  your  good,  more  than  ever  courtier  did  for 
court  favor.  And  this  was  the  more  intricate,  difficult,  and 
heart- and-brain  racking,  because  I  wished  to  achieve  your 
own  good  without  causing  ill,  even  by  a  moment's  pain  to 
any  other.  I  loved  you,  Magdalene,  so  much  !  I  knew 
yon  lo\ed  me.  And  sometimes  when  wisdom  dictated  a 
thaw  of  coldness  that  I  never  felt,  Magdalene,  sometimes  I 
would  catch  your  eyes  and  pour  through  mine  the  whole 
meaning '"of  ray  soul." 

"And  I  read  you  aright." 

"Ah  !"  said  Clinton,  with  something  of  a  bitter  sneer  at 
himself. 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  never  suspected  that  you  scorned  ME. 
How  could  I  suppose  that  ?" 

"  I  never  did.  Matrdalene." 

"  1  knew  from  the  first  evening  that  we  met,  you  loved  me  " 

"  I  d.'d,  Magdalene ;  and  from  that  hour  one  idea  pos- 
sessed and  governed  me — your  happiness.  Yet,  great  God  ! 
if  I  have  failed  1" 


308  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"It  will  be  my  own  fault." 

"  It  will,  Magdalene ;  yet  not  the  less  my  own  terrible 
misfortune. " 

"You  feel  and  speak  too  morbidly  about  this,  my  dear- 
est friend.  I  am  very  happy,  only  I  reproach  myself  that 
I  do  not  feel  the  same  great  concern  for  your  future,  that 
you  feel  for  mine." 

"  And  yet,  Magdalene,  there  is  something  in  your  eye — 
something  on  your  brow  that  is  not  happiness.  You  are 
the  soul  of  truth  and  candor.  What  is  it  ?  Tell  me  !" 

"I  will.  It  is  because  every  thing  that  is  not  plain, 
simple,  square,  well-defined,  unmistakable,  pains  me.  Words 
nnd  sentences  that  do  not  express  the  full  truth,  or  that 
express  more  than  the  truth,  or  that  admit  of  more  than 
one  construction,  pain  me,  pain  me  always,  pain  me  deeply 
in  one  that  I  love.  You  deal  in  such  phrases,  dear  Clinton, 
und  they  give  me  trouble.  It  seems  ungrateful  in  me  to 
feel  so,  but  I  cannot  avoid  it.  It  seems  insolent  in  me  to 
Kay  so,  but  you  asked  me  for  my  thoughts,  and  I  have  no 
concealments  from  you  ;  and  you  are  so  forbearing,  so  pa- 
tient, that  I  have  no  fear  of  offending  you.  I  loathe  mv- 
self  for  feeling  and  for  saying  this.  Visit  it  in  any  way  you 
please,  Clinton,  I  will  submit." 

"  Alas,  Magdalene  !"  he  began,  and  there  he  stopped. 
Soon  he  embraced  her  and  said  :  "  Let  us  talk  of  something 
else." 

"  Yes,  of  your  trip  to  England,  of  the  career  that  opens 
before  you.  You  succeed  to  the  title  and  estates  of  Lord 
Cliffe.  That  is  valuable,  but  most  valuable  as  a  step  into 
a  more  useful  sphere  of  action.  You  will  be  in  the  House 
of  Lords.  Oh,  Clinton,  how  anxious  I  have  been  to  see 
you  in  public  life  !  how  impatient  I  have  been  to  see  you 
wasting  your  manhood's  years,  and  your  splendid  talents  in 
idleness  and  self-indulgence !  Oh,  Clinton,  I  have  had 


NEW     LIFE.  309 

great  ambition,  high  ambition,  powerful  .ambition  for  my- 
self !  Now,  all  my  ambition  is  merged  in  aspiration  after 
your  success.  Oh  1  I  shall  feel  so  glorified  in  your  glory, 
so  great  in  your  greatness,  so  royal  in  your  royalty ;  for, 
Cliiuon,  you  will  be  great,  you  will  be  glorious  ;  and  if  you 
have  not  the  sovereign's  name,  you  will  have  the  sovereign's 
might!  You  will  be  that '  power  behind  the  throne  greater 
than  the  throne  itself. '  You  will  rule  the  nations  of  the  earth 
by  force  of  mind.  Clinton,  you  know  that  I  am  no  excitable 
enthusiast.  I  have  enthusiasm,  but  it  is  profound,  and  only 
moves  on  great  occasions,  and  it  moves  powerfully.  I 
would  it  were  a  force  to  impel  even  you  on  to  a  career  of 
greatness.  Clinton,  I  would  have  men  point  you  out  and 
say :  '  That  is  the  first  man  in  Europe,  the  greatest  states- 
man in  the  world !'  and  I  would  have  all  that  power  con- 
verted into  blessing  for  humanity.  I  would  sanctify  a 
human  ambition  by  a  Divine  beneficence."  Her  head  was 
raised,  her  cheeks  were  glowing,  her  crimson  lips  apart, 
her  eyes  sparkling  as  she  spoke.  Suddenly,  as  by  magic, 
all  was  changed  in  her.  She  started  violently,  shuddered 
terribly.  Her  high  glance  fell,  her  cheek  paled,  her  lips  grew 
ashy,  and  she  was  falling,  when  he  caught  her,  exclaiming  . 

"  My  God,  Magdalene,  are  you  ill !" 

"  No — hush  !  Nothing  !  I  am  better  !"  she  said,  inco 
herently. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?     You  tremble  yet  I" 

"  Tt  is  nothing ;  really  nothing  !" 

"  What  is  or  was  the  '  nothing'  then,  that  caused  yonr 
midden  indisposition  ?  Come,  Magdalene,  you  have  no 
concealments  !" 

"  It — it  was — a  dream  /" 

"  •  A  dream  !'  » 

"  Or  rather,  the  sudden  realization  of  a  scene  in  n 
dream. " 


810  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Magdalene  !  snch  absurdity,  nay  dear  1" 

"  Do  not  speak  of  it.     Forget  it,  pray  1" 

"  I  have  never  seen  you  so  terribly  shaken." 

"Forget  it,  I  beseech  you." 

" '  Shadows  this  night  have  struck  more  terror  to  the 
heart  of  Richard,  than  could  the  substance  of  ten  thousand 
men.'  Will  you  not  tell  ine  this  remembered  dream,  Mag- 
dalene ?" 

"  Not  now ;  not  now  !  Oh  I  I  beseech  you,  speak  no 
more  of  it,"  said  she.  And  Sir  Clinton,  astonished  at  this 
unparalleled  weakness  and  continued  agitation,  became 
silent. 

"  Let  us  go  hence,"  said  Magdalene,  as  soon  as  she  had, 
in  some  degree,  recovered  her  self-command. 

And  they  left  the  villa,  re-entered  the  carriage,  and  drove 
back  to  Paris. 

That  night,  as  they  talked  together  of  Clinton's  speedy 
departure,  and  of  Magdalene's  longer  residence  in  France, 
Clinton  said, 

"  In  the  exigencies  of  your  daily  life,  Magdalene,  you 
will  need  some  intimate  friend.  I  would  like  to  leave  yon 
in  the  care  of  such  an  one.  In  and  among  the  many  men 
whom  I  have  presented  to  you,  is  there  any  single  indivi- 
dual for  whom  yon  feel  a  greater  degree  of  friendship,  or  in 
whom  you  place  a  deeper  confidence  than  in  all  the  others  ? 
Tell  me,  Magdalene." 

She  thought  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  replied — 

"  No,  there  is  not !  There  are  several  I  admire — some  I 
esteem — one  or  two  I  highly  respect ;  but  no  one  individual 
111  whom  I  feel  any  especial  interest !" 

"  I  am  sorry,  Magdalene  !  I  would  like  to  leave  yon  in 
the  care  of  Borne  one,  and  would  prefer  to  be  guided  liy 
your  preferences." 


NEW    LIFE.  311 

"  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  dear  Clinton'." 

"  Yes,  dear,  among  the  forests,  fields  and  floods  of  the 
Chesapeake  better  than  upon  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  I 
cannot  leave  you  unprotected,  Magdalene  1" 

"  What  do  you  think  will  happen  to  me  ?  Well  if  it 
will  ease  your  own  mind  at  all,  you  may  give  Monsieur  De 
Ville  a  charge  over  me." 

"  That  hideous  old  satyr — " 

"  That  biting  old  satirist,  you  mean.  Yes,  I  like  him  I 
I  like  his  '  mirthfulness  and  destructiveness,"  as  my  Virgin- 
ian familiar  demon,  Bruin,  would  understand  it !  his  bitter 
irony,  as  we  call  it." 

"  Oh,  Magdalene  1  you  have  a  taste  for  monsters  !  Well, 
be  it  so — he  is  sincere,  brave,  and  frank." 

"  That  is  what  I  like  in  him  !  He  would  not  be  sincere 
and  frank,  without  being  brave,  or  brave  without  being  sin- 
cere and  frank." 

The  next  morning,  Sir  Clinton  Carey  removed  Magdalene 
to  the  Villa  on  the  Seine,  and  spent  the  last  night  of  his 
stay  in  France  there  with  her.  At  day-break  the  next 
morning  the  carriage  was  in  readiness  before  the  door  to 
convey  him  to  Paris,  whence  be  was  to  set  out  on  his  return 
to  England.  Of  course  the  parting  even  for  a  few  months 
between  those  who  loved  each  other  so  devotedly  and  so 
exclusively,  was  very  painful.  Magdalene  possessed,  or  at 
least  exhibited  more  fortitude,  than  did  Clinton.  They 
parted  at  the  door  of  the  carriage,  and  again  and  again 
Clinton  stepped  out,  and  folding  her  to  his  bosom,  ex 
claimed, 

"  Oh  Magdalene  !  We  do  not  know  what  may  turn 
np  in  this  world  !  We  cannot  prophecy  what  a  day  may 
bring  forth.  But,  oh  Magdalene !  what  ever  happens, 
believe  that  I  love  you.  For  as  the  Lord  lives,  I  do,  Mag- 
dalene. I  do  /"  he  reiterated,  pressing  her  to  his  heart. 


512  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"Think  of  me  as  well  as  you  can,  Magdalene.     Good-by  !' 

"  God  bless  you,  Clinton,"  said  she  fervently. 

"  Good-by  !  Good-by  1"  he  exclaimed,  almost  wildly 
straining  her  to  his  bosom  an  instant,  then  leaping  into  the 
carriage,  which  was  soon  whirled  out  of  sight.  Magdalene 
returned  to  the  Villa,  pained  most  deeply  at  the  thought 
of  his  pain  at  parting  with  her,  yet  gratified  at  that  proof 
of  his  affection  for  her. 

His  words  and  manners  of  late  had  been  perplexing. 
There  had  been  a  latent  meaning  in  them  that  would  have 
seriously  disturbed  her  peace,  but  that  she  conscientiously 
and  perse ver in gly  banished  every  thing  from  her  mind  that 
tended  to  create  a  doubt  or  a  suspicion  of  him. 

That  day  her  little  old  "  guardian"  came  down  to  bring 
her  the  news  of  Clinton's  departure  from  Paris,  and  to  re- 
ceive her  "  commands"  for  any  service  in  his  power  to  per- 
form. Magdalene  thanked  him,  and  promised  to  let  him 
know  when  she  required  "  aid  and  comfort." 

Magdalene  soon  began  to  feel  her  loneliness  in  this 
strange  country.  This  was  not  the  immediate  effect  of 
her  solitude,  but  day  by  day  she  felt  it  more  and  more. 

She  would  have  fallen  into  gloom,  but  that  with  one  of 
her  strong  volitions  of  the  will,  she  wrested  her  thoughts 
from  herself  and  her  own  situation,  and  fixed  them  upon  a 
work  she  had  long  had  in  view,  namely  :  a  new  tragedy  of 
Joan  D'Arc,  which  she  wished  to  compose  in  French  blank 
verse,  and  offer  to  the  principal  theatre  in  Paris.  This  was 
an  exciting  and  absorbing  labor,  and  once  interested  in  its 
progress,  Magdalene  worked  on  from  day  to  day — passing 
into  the  being  of  her  own  creation,  and  losing  all  sense  of 
her  real  in  her  ideal  existence  ;  and  so  the  first  weeks  of 
Clinton's  absence  slipped  away,  and  her  drama  was  com- 
pleted to  her  own  satisfaction,  before  she  paused  to  \vouder 
why  Clinton  did  not  write. 


NEW     LIFE.  313 

"He  is  busy,  absorbed — as  I  have  been.  Doubtless  I 
shall  hear  soon.  Or  if  I  do  not  get  a  letter,  he  will  step  in 
upon  me  himself  some  day  soon  1  Instead  of  writing,  he 
will  come  !" 

She  submitted  her  drama  first  to  M.  De  Yille,  feeling 
sure  that  if  it  passed  his  biting,  acrimonious  criticism,  it 
would  have  gone  through  the  sharpest,  severest  ordeal  to 
which  any  such  production  could  have  been  subjected.  The 
old  man  took  it  home,  with  many  a  carping  sarcasm,  that 
boded  no  good  fortune  to  the  author. 

That  night  Magdalene  wrote  to  Clinton — not  to  comolain 
of  his  silence — not  to  express  anxiety,  for  she  indulged  no 
weakness  of  the  sort — but  to  tell  him  of  her  occupations  and 
her  hopes,  and  to  ask  him  if  he  were  not  corning  soon,  at 
least  to  write  to  her.  And  this  letter  she  determined  to 
send  in  by  M.  De  Ville,  when  he  should  come  out  the  next 
day.  The  old  man  presented  himself  about  sunset.  Mag- 
dalene could  guess  nothing  from  his  shut-up  countenance, 
but  not  being  a  person  to  endure  a  moment's  unnecessary 
suspense,  she  at  once  broached  the  subject  of  her  thoughts, 
by  saying, 

"Perhaps  you  have  had  time  to  look  through  my  drama, 
Monsieur  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  have  not,  madame  !  Perhaps  that  drama 
defrauded  me  of  my  whole  day's  business  yesterday.  Per- 
chance I  carried  it  to  Madame  De  B 's  soiree,  and 

read  it  to  her  circle.  Perchance  there  was  some  sensation, 
— some  excitement — and  the  name  of  the  author  was  called 
for  by  acclamation  !  I  would  not  give  it  up,  and  the 
result  of  my  persistence  in  silence  you  may  easily  coujf  r. 
ture  !" 

"  They  fixed  the  disowned  child  upon  you." 

"  Exactly.  How  I  blushed  !  No  maiden  crimsoner  I 
But  how  much  more  painfully  I  blushed  when  they  found 


814  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

out  the  author,  aud  their  mistake !  Well,  Madame,  as  ex- 
pedition in  these  matters  is  of  primary  importance,  I  took 
advantage  of  the  fresh  enthusiasm  of  this  circle,  and  begged 

the  interest  and  recommendation  of  M.  D ,  and 

E ,  and  Mad.  M ,  with  Leviere,  the  manager 

of  the Theatre,  to  have  it  brought  out.  M.  D 

called  on  Leviere  this  morning.  In  short  then,  Leviere 
looked  over  the  drama,  sent  it  to  Madame  Henriette,  and 
finally,  this  afternoon,  I  received  a  note  from  Leviere,  in- 
forming me  that  the  tragedy  was  accepted,  and  would  prob- 
ably be  produced  in  a  few  weeks — I  came  straight  to  you 
with  the  news  I" 

"  A  thousand  thanks — but — " 

"  Well,  madame  !     You  were  about  to  ask — " 

"Have  you  received  no  letters  from  England  ?" 

"  Ah,  bah  !  I  tell  you  a  piece  of  news  that  should  over 
joy  you,  and  you  captiously  ask  me  for  letters  from  En- 
gland 1  Will  you  still  think  of  that  fellow  ?" 

"  I  w.ll  trespass  on  your  kindness  so  far  as  to  ask  you  to 
take  charge  of  a  letter  to  Paris,  and  mail  it  for  England,  if 
you  will  so  far  oblige  me." 

With  something  between  a  groan  and  a  sneer,  the  old 
man  received  the  letter,  and  depositing  it  in  his  pocket,  took 
his  leave. 

Having  thus  dispatched  her  letter,  Magdalene  experi- 
enced no  further  uneasiness  on  that  score.  She  felt  sure 
that  it  would  soon  bring  a  reply  from  Clinton. 

Having  finished  her  work,  she  had  no  other  occupation 
to  keep  her  at  home.  She  went  to  Paris,  and  to  the  lite- 
rary soirees  of  Madame  De  B often. 

The  next  few  weeks,  during  which  the  new  dresses  and 
new  Scenery  were  being  got  up  for  her  drama,  and  the  re- 
hearsals already  being  commenced,  were  full  of  interest  and 
excitement  for  her.  The  daily  rehearsals  of  the  new  drama 


NEW     LIFE.  815 

were  attended  by  the  elite  of  the  literary  circles  of  Paris, 
and  already  the  approaching  sound  of  a  coming  triumph 
reached  her  ears. 

The  "eventful"  night  at  last  arrived  when  the  tragedy 
was  to  be  performed.  The  tickets  had  all  been  sold  early 
in  the  day. 

The  house  was  crowded  at  an  early  hour  of  the  evening. 
Magdalene,  attended  by  "her  monster,"  "her  familiar," 
"  her  demon,"  as  Monsieur  De  Ville  was  called,  occupied  a 
private  box  closely  curtained. 

The  night  was  one  of  unalloyed  triumph. 

The  first  scene  was  welcomed  cordially.  The  interest  of 
the  audience  was  strongly  aroused  in  its  progress,  and  the 
excitement  increased  to  the  close  of  the  first  act,  when  the 
curtain  fell  amid  such  a  storm  of  applause  as  only  a  French 
audience  can  raise  around  a  favorite  actress  in  a  highly  suc- 
cessful drama. 

"Ciel!  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Madame?"  asked 
her  "demon,"  in  a  tone  of  sympathetic  triumph. 

"  That  the  public  is  in  a  good  humor  to-uight  1" 

"And  the  dramatist,  too  !  w'  est  ce  pas  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  Mile.  Uenriette  does  not  satisfy  me  ! 
She  is  a  pretty  woman,  a  graceful  women,  and  a  talented 
woman,  but  she  has  not  force  of  character  enough  to  con- 
ceive Joan  D'Arc  !" 

"You  could  play  it  better?"  asked  the  "familiar,"  with  a 
qnecr  blending  of  truth  and  sarcasm  in  his  dry  tone. 

"Yes,"  answered  Magdalene,  quietly — ".  could  do  it 
Utter!" 

The  triumph  of  the  evening  arose  higher  with  every  a^l 
of  the  play,  and  at  its  close  the  curtain  finally  dropped  amid 
a  tempest  of  enthusiastic  excitement,  such  as  has  seldom 
been  seen  in  a  French  theatre. 

"Now  then,  pardieu!  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  crowed 


316  THE     TWO      SISTtKS. 

M.  De  Yille,  as  he  threw  Magdalene's  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  when  they  were  about  to  leave  the  box.  "  Have 
you  ever,  in  all  your  life,  experienced  a  greater  triumph,  a 
keener  joy  ?" 

"  Yes,  several  times  in  my  life  !  Last  month  I  experi- 
enced a  greater  triumph,  a  keener  joy  when  I  had  com- 
pleted the  drama  to  my  own  satisfaction,  without  which  it 
might  still  have  succeeded,  but  the  success  only  would  have 
bitterly  mocked  my  own  sense  of  failure  !" 

"  You  knew  it  ought  to  succeed  !  You  did  not  know  it 
would!  Now  you  know  it  lias!  Are  you  not  happy? 
Are  you  not  triumphant?" 

Magdalene  was  not — at  least  not  triumphant !  She  was 
profoundly  grateful — profoundly  happy — but  there  was  a 
voice  in  her  heart  that  asked — "  Who  maketh  thee  to  differ 
from  another?"  "  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  of  them  to  whom 
much  is  given  much  will  be  required."  The  gratitude  she 
felt  in  the  power  freely  bestowed  upon  her,  the  pleasure  she 
took  in  its  exercise,  the  joy  she  felt  in  its  triumph,  all  im- 
pressed her  with  a  strong  feeling  of  obligation  to  God,  and 
inspired  her  with  a  desire  to  sanctify  by  great  usefulness  a 
gift  so  full  of  happiness. 

Early  the  next  morning,  little  Monsieur  De  Ville  rode 
out  to  the  Maisouette-sur-Seine. 

"Well,  Mudarne  La  Lionne,  how  breaks  the  morning  on 
last  night's  fever?"  Magdalene  smiled  gravely.  "All 
Paris  is  ringing  with  that  triumph  !  The  drama  will  run  a 
hundred  nights,  I  have  no  doubt !  Well !  what  do  you  say  ? 
•  Nothing '— Bas  !  Vil !  Infame  !  There  is  nothing  in  life 
that  transcends  the  self-appreciation  of  a  successful  young 
debutante!" 

"  Except  the  self-conceit  of  an  old  stager !"  Magdalene 
rould  not  help  retorting. 


NEW     LIFE.  817 

"  Ah  !  well !  I  have  budgets  of  news  besides  !  a  mail  from 
England  with  letters  for  you  !  Ha !  does  that  move  your 
serene  highness  ?  Here  they  are  then  1"  said  the  little 
"monster,"  putting  a  package  in  her  hand.  A  glance 
showed  her  that  several  of  the  papers  were  legal  documents, 
and  one  only  a  letter  I 

A  letter  from  Clinton. 

She  tore  open  the  seal — she  never  realized  until  that 
instant,  how,  through  all  occupations  and  emotions,  she  had 
waited,  watched,  and  hoped  for  that  letter! — how,  under 
every  superficial  interest,  had  smoldered  that  intense  fire 
of  expectation  !  Forgetting,  utterly,  the  presence  of  another 
— with  crimson  cheeks  and  lips  glowing  in  breathless  eager- 
ness, and  eyes  consuming  the  page,  she  began  to  read. 

What  was  there  in  that  letter  that  suddenly  struck  all 
color  from  her  face,  and  all  power  from  her  frame  ? 

De  Ville — forgotten — looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

She  read  on,  with  face  as  white,  as  motionless  as  marble. 
She  might  have  seemed  a  statue,  but,  for  the  slow,  steady 
motion  of  the  stony  eyes  that  followed  the  lines.  At  length, 
the  hand  that  held  the  letter  fell,  like  lead,  by  her  side,  and 
she  sat  with  deathlike  brow,  and  white  lips  struck  apart, 
and  straining  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy  ! 

Long  she  sat  so — perfectly  silent — and  the  old  man  dared 
not  speak  to  her. 

At  last  she  arose — the  letter  dropped  from  her  hand — 
and  with  the  same  pallid  brow  and  stony  gaze — with  one 
hand  raised  as  in  perplexity  to  her  head,  and  the  other  ex- 
tended dubiously  before  her — as  one  sudden)-  stricken  with 
blindness  or  with  frenzy — as  a  sleep-walker  e»-  a  phantom, 
she  passed  slowly  from  the  room  ! 

The  little  philosopher  looked  after  her  in  grief  and 
ntnnzement,  as  one  nndei  the  influence  of  a  baleful  dr<*«un 


818  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

His  eye  fell  upon  the  letter;  he  picked  it  up;  straightened 
it;  sat  down;  took  out  his  spectacles;  put  them  on  his  nose, 
and  composedly  read  the  epistle  from  beginning  to  and. 

He  felt  no  more  surprise  at  Magdalene's  anguish  and 
despaSi  — gazing  with  dilated  eyes  upon  the  letter,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  Mon  Dien  !  Mon  Dieu  !  has  she  then  been  kept 
in  the  dark  so  long !  Mon  Dieu !  Mon  Dieu !  had  I 
known  that,  and  known  the  contents  of  this  letter,  I  would 
have  cast  it  into  the  fire,  or  burned  my  own  right  hand  to 
cinders  before  ever  I  would  have  brought  it  to  her  !  Pliit 
a  Dieu!  I  had  known  this  before."  Having  finished  the 
reading,  he  folded  it  up  and  put  it  into  his  pocket — saying, 
"  This  must  not  be  left  about." 

Then  he  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  room  a  long 
time  in  deep  thought. 

At  length  after  hours  had  passed,  he  rang  the  bell  and 
directed  the  man  who  answered  it  to  send  Mademoiselle 
Lisette,  Madame's  fetnme  de  chambre,  to  him. 

When  this  girl  came  in,  he  told  her  to  go  to  her  mis- 
tress and  say  that  he  awaited  her  commands  for  Paris. 

The  girl  left  the  room,  and  after  an  absence  of  half  an 
hour,  returned  with  the  news  that  Madame's  apartments 
were  fastened  on  the  inside — that  she  had  knocked  and 
called  gently,  but  having  received  no  answer,  she  supposed 
Madame  might  be  reposing,  and  feared  to  disturb  her. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  little  "  familiar ;"  and  dismissing 
:ii-  «j-irl,  he  set  himself  down  to  rood  a  paper  fof  an  hour. 

Soon  growing  restless  again,  he  got  up  and  walked  the 
floor  a  while,  and  then  rang  the  bell  a  second  time,  and 
sent  Lisette  on  a  second  errand  to  Magdalene's  apart- 
ment, with  .precisely  the  same  result. 

Monsieur  de  Ville  knew  very  well  that  Magdalene  was 
very  far  from  any  sort  of  repose. 

The  little  guardian  was  half  terrified  at  the  idea  of  leav- 


NEW     L1FK.  31i> 

ing  his  charge  in  what  he  considered  a  very  alarming  state  ; 
but  it  was  getting  late  in  the  afternoon,  his  dinner-hour 
was  near,  and  he  was  hungry!  So  directing  Lisette  to  in- 
form him  if  her  mistress  should  be  ill,  or  need  his  services 
in  any  manner,  he  left  the  Villa  with  the  promise  to  return 
early  in  the  morning. 

The  next  morning  while  he  sat  at  breakfast,  in  dressing- 
gown,  night-cap,  and  slippers,  suddenly — 

Magdalene  stood  before  him  like  an  apparition  I 
With  face  as  white  and  moveless  as  death,  and  all  the 
nerves  and  muscles  drawn  tight  as  with  the  action  of  acute 
pain,  with  eyes  sunken,  drawn  in,  and  down,  as  by  cords 
of  extreme  suffering,  yet  strained  and  burning  intensely,  as 
fire  under  frost.  In  her  whole  manner  there  was  an  air  of 
still,  powerful,  self-restrained  frenzy.  As  the  little  savan 
gazed  at  her  in  surprise  and  alarm,  and  before  he  found  his 
speech,  she  said,  in  a  voice  unnatural  from  its  enforced 
steadiness — 

"  I  must  go  to  England  to-day.     Get  all  ready." 
"  Go  to  England  to-day  !     You  are  mad,  Madame  !"  ex- 
claimed the  philosopher,   recovering   his  speech,  yet   still 
gazing  at  her. 

"  I  must  leave  Paris  for  England  to-day.    Get  all  ready." 
"Leave    Paris   for   England   to-day!     Pardonnez   moi, 
Madame.     I  have  kept  you  standing  all  this  time.     The 
surprise,  the  delight  of  seeing  you  I     Be  seated,  Madame." 
In-   saiil,  somewhat   at   random,  wheeling   a   chair    tin  and 
seating  her  in  it,  and  giving  her  a  half-terrified  attention. 
"  Did  you  hear  me  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  Madame,  you  were  saying ?" 

"  That  I  must  leave  Paris  for  England  to-day." 
"  Leave  Paris !     You  '.     Pardon  me,  Madame,  you  leave 
Paris!      You,  the  lionne  of  the  day!      FJU — you!  in  the 


S'JO  THK     TWO     SISTEKS. 

first  flash  of  your  brilliant  success !  You  !  with  the  wreath 
just  twined  for  your  brow  !  You  leave  the  scene  of  youi 
fresh  triumph !" 

With  a  painfnl  and  impatient  gesture  she  arrested  nis 
further  compliments,  and  said  :  "  Look  at  me,  and  HUSH  ! 
Yes,  to-day.  Assist  me,  or  tell  me  that  you  will  not  !'•" 

He  would  have  resisted  her,  he  would  have  argued,  en- 
treated, flattered,  coaxed  her  to  forego  her  purpose — he 
knew  and  felt  that  there  was  madness  in  its  object — but  he 
saw  in  the  mighty  force  of  a  will  strong  enough  to  restrain 
the  outbreak  of  the  frenzy  that  filled  her  heart  and  brain, 
an  inflexibility  that  would  never  bend  to  any  strength  of 
opposition.  Powerless  to  stay  her  journey,  he  did  all  that 
he  could  to  expedite  it.  That  day  Magdalene  left  Paris, 
traveling  fast.  The  third  day  from  that  she  sailed  for 
Portsmouth. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DESPAIR. 

"Medea  burning 
At  her  nature's  planted  stake."— Mrs.  Brotoniny. 

SOON  after  the  events  recorded  in  our  last  chapter,  early 
one  morning,  a  cab  drew  up  before  a  handsome  house  in 
Portman  Square,  London.  The  driver  dismounted  from 
his  seat,  and  going  to  the  cab  door,  received  from  the  lady 
inside,  a  card.  Then  going  up  the  front  steps  of  trie  man- 
sion, he  rang  the  bell  and  delivered  it  to  the  servant  who 
opened  the  door.  The  man  receiving  the  card  took  it  in 
the  hou«e,  and  after  an  absence  of  some  minutes,  returned 


321 

with  the  news  that  his  master  was  not  at  home.  But  now 
the  head  of  a  lady,  closely  vailed,  appeared  at  the  cab 
window,  and  she  beckoned  the  servant  to  approach  her. 
lie  went  to  her. 

"  Your  master,  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  is  not  within,  you 
say  ?" 

"  My  master,  Lord  Cliffe,  late  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  is  not, 
madam." 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  In  Hertfordshire,  superintending  the  funeral  of  his 
lordship's  uncle,  the  late  Lord  Cliffe." 

"When  is  he  expected  to  be  at  home  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  ma'am,"  replied  the  man,  dropping  his 
eyes  beneath  the  strained  and  piercing  gaze  of  the  pale 
and  haggard  lady,  whom  he  half  suspected  to  be  a  maniac. 

A  colder  pallor  crept  over  the  face  of  the  lady,  succeeded 
by  an  instantaneous  rigidity  of  feature,  as  by  the  taking  of 
a  sudden  resolution. 

"  That  will  do — home  again  !"  she  said  respectively  to 
the  servant  and  to  the  cabman. 

The  next  morning,  at  a  later  hour,  the  cab  stood  again 
before  the  same  house.  The  driver  got  down,  and  opened 
the  door,  and  the  lady  herself — looking  even  iller  and  more 
wasted  than  upon  the  day  previous — alighted,  walked  up 
the  steps  of  the  mansion,  and  rang  the  door-bell.  The  same 
servant  opened  the  door. 

"  Take  this  to  your  master's  room,  and,  if  he  is  not  in, 
eave  it  on  his  table,"  she  said,  putting  a  letter  in  his 
hand. 

The  man  took  it  hesitatingly,  looked  at  her  in  doubt  a 
moment,  and  then  turned  to  do  her  bidding.  She  stepped 
Boftlv  after  him,  up  the  broad  hall,  up  the  wide  staircase,  to 
tiie  first  floor,  then  down  a  long  passage,  near  the  further 
extremity  of  which  he  opened  a  door,  through  which  he  dis- 


3:22  TUB     TWO     SISTERS. 

appeared,  closing  it  behind  him.  He  had  scarcely  done  so 
before  her  hand  was  on  the  knob ;  she  turned  it,  and  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  dressing-room  of  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  or, 
as  we  must  now  call  him,  Lord  Cliffe,  who,  in  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  with  newspaper  in  hand,  dawdled  over 
a  late  breakfast.  Neither  Lord  Cliffe  nor  his  footman  per- 
ceived her  entrance  at  first. 

"  A  letter,  my  lord,  from  the  lady  who  called  in  the  cab 
yesterday,"  said  the  man,  approaching,  bowing,  and  re- 
spectfully offering  the  letter. 

As  Lord  Cliffe  turned  to  receive  it,  his  glance  fell  upon 
Magdalene,  standing  within  the  door,  and  their  eyes  met ! 
He  started  violently,  gazed  fixedly  at  her  an  instant,  and 
exclaimed,  in  an  agitated  voice  : 

"My  God,  Magdalene  1  You  here!  And  how  fearfully 
changed  1  Oh  heaven,  Magdalene,  have  I  done  this  ?" 

With  a  straining  gaze  and  an  adjuring  gesture,  she  sank 
into  the  nearest  chair. 

"Leave  the  room,  Jenkins,"  he  said  to  the  footman,  who, 
wondering,  obeyed. 

He  went  to  her,  hastily  untied  and  removed  her  bonnet, 
loosened  the  shawl  about  her  neck,  and  poured  out  and 
offered  her  a  glass  of  wine,  which  she  waved  away,  and 
which  he  set  down  again,  sank  upon  his  knees  by  her  side, 
took  both  her  cold,  cold  hands  in  his  own,  gazed  inquir- 
ingly, imploringly  in  her  face,  and  cried,  in  a  voice  full  of 
anguish  : 

"  Magdalene  !  Magdalene  !  My  dear,  dear  Magdalene  ! 
What  is  this  ?  Speak  to  me  !" 

She  looked  down  in  his  face,  and  her  own  relaxed  from 
its  frozen  rigidity,  and  her  eyes  softened  from  their  stony 
fixedness,  as  she  replied  : 

"  I — I  received  a  letter  !  Where  is  it  ?  I— I  think  I 
have  lost  it !"  and  she  put  her  hand,  in  pain  and  doubt,  to 


DESPAIR.  323 

her  head.  A  spasm  of  agony  traversed  his  countenance, 
and  he  said,  in  a  voice  whose  utterance  seemed  to  wring 
his  own  heart : 

''  Magdalene  !  my  dearest  Magdalene  !  Recollect  your- 
self! What  is  it  you  are  trying  to  say  ?" 

Again  her  hand  passed  backward  and  forward  before  her 
brow,  as  though  to  clear  away  a  mist  that  was  there,  and 
she  continued  to  gaze  on  him  in  a  vague  insanity.  Sud- 
denly, by  an  almost  omnipotent  effort  of  will,  she  recovered 
herself.  Her  countenance  cleared — its  expression  became 
intelligent — intense  with  meaning — her  eyes  fired,  fixed,  and 
seemed  to  strike  deep  into  his  soul,  as  she  said  : 

"  Yes,  a  letter !  Just  before  leaving  France,  I  received 

a  letter,  dated  Castle  Clitfe,  and  bearing  your  signature 

but— Clinton!  did  you  write  that  letter?" 

No  language  can  describe. the  agony  of  desperate  hope 
expressed  in  the  tone  and  manner  in  which  she  put  this  mad 
question.  He  dared  not  answer  it — he  dared  not  meet  her 
consuming  gaze.  He  averted  his  head  in  an  anguish  of 
spirit  scarcely  less  than  her  own. 

"  Did  you  write  that  letter  ?"  she  asked  again. 

"  My  friend  !  my  love  1— oh,  Magdalene  !  be  calm  !" 

"  I  am.     But — Did  you  write  that  letter  ?". 

"  '  Calm  !'  "  he  exclaimed,  evading  her  searching  ques- 
tion. "  '  Calm  !'  You  calm  !  There  is  a  chained  frenzy 
in  your  whole  bearing  more  terrible  than  the  most  frantic 
fury  could  be  !  Magdalene  !" 

"  Did  you  write  that  letter  ?" 

He  started  from  her  side — paced  the  room  with  rapid 
strides — stopped — poured  out  and  quaffed  a  large  glass  of 
brandy,  and  returned  to  her  with  some  words  of  soothing 
import — but — 

"Did  you  ?  Did  you  write  that  letter?"  she  cried,  in  a 
low,  deep,  but  piercing  voice,  her  restrained  excitement 


824:  v  H  K    r  v;  o    s  i  s  i  K  R  a. 

becoming  more  violent  every  moment,  until  he  could  almost 
see  the  burning  lava  of  passion  roll,  and  flame,  and  surge 
beneath  the  still  surface. 

"  Magdalene  1"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  voice  of  com- 
manding tenderness,  as  he  sat  down  by  her  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  DID  YOU  WRITE  THAT  LETTER  ?"  she  almost  shrieked. 

With  a  gesture  of  desperation,  as  though  the  reply  had 
been  torn  from  him,  he  said  : 

"  Yes,  Magdalene  !  I  did  write  that  letter ! — but  are  you 
sc  agonized,  my  love,  in  knowing  that  you  are  free  ?"  Then 
b»  stopped  suddenly,  as  in  terror,  and  glanced  at  her 
quickly,  with  the  expectation  of  seeing  some  violent  oat- 
break  of  furious  frenzy. 

He  was  agreeably  disappointed. 

With  his  answer,  her  form  and  face  relaxed,  her  hands 
dropped  into  her  lap,  and  she  remained  perfectly  quiet 
Swiftly  mortal  wounds  cause  no  struggle,  exhibit  no  agony  ; 
it  is  only — all  over — death — naught  !  The  shaft  that  strikes 
at  once  the  brain  or  heart  is  not  felt.  So  it  is  with  moral 
wounds.  Her  affection  was  now  mortally  wounded — pierced 
at  once  to  the  quick — and  so  she  scarcely  felt  it.  She  only 
felt  that  the  dread  agony  of  suspense  was  quite  over  The 
instant  he  had  said,  "  Yes,  Magdalene,  I  did  write  the  let- 
ter 1"  the  last,  wild,  desperate,  frantic  hope  that  had  strained 
every  nerve  upon  the  rack  of  an  excruciating  anxiety  was 
cut  off,  and  the  tension  was  relaxed,  and  the  torture  was 
over ;  and  the  despair  that  was  ease,  because  it  was  death, 
had  corae. 

An  instant  before  she  had  been  desperate — now  she  was 
in  despair.  Despair  is  to  desperation  what  death  is  to  the 
death-struggle — the  ease  that  succeeds  agony.  Complete 
despair  is  perfect  peace,  because  it  is  insensibility,  apathy, 
torpor. 


DESPAIR.  825 

The  infusion  of  one  drop  of  hope  would  have  aroused 
life,  pain,  agony — even  as  a  cordial  revives  the  victim,  faint- 
ing from  the  rack,  to  new  tortures.  But  no  such  cruel 
stimulant  awaited  her.  There  was  no  disturbing  'iope  for 
her.  Her  despair,  her  calm,  was  complete. 

She  remained  perfectly  quiescent,  and  he  was  deceived. 

Because  her  countenance  at  once  relaxed — because  the 
muscles  of  her  face  were  no  longer  drawn  into  tight  lines — 
because  her  eyes  were  no  longer  strained  out  and  burning, 
he  was  misled.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  snapping 
of  her  heart-strings  that  had  relieved  the  tension  of  her 
nerves,  and  allowed  her  countenance  to  settle  into  the  pla 
cidity  of  death. 

She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  move,  but  sat  perfectly 
silent  and  motionless,  while  he  continued  to  watch  her,  un- 
til, thoroughly  deceived  by  her  quietude,  he  camo  and  sat 
beside  her,  took  the  hand  that  she  did  not  withhold,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  to  his  bosom,  and  said  : 

"Magdalene,  dearest  Magdalene,  do  you  not  fee!,  not- 
withstanding all,  that  I  love  you  ?  that  I  love  you  more 
than  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  love  another  ?  that  I  lov^  you 
more  than  life  ?  more  than  all  things  else,  except — we«l.  nc 
matter.  f)o  you  not  know  this,  Magdalene  ?"  he  said, 
passing  his  arm  around  her  waist,  drawing  her,  unresis'.ing, 
to  his  bosom,  and  pressing  his  lips  to  hers.  "  Say,  Magda- 
lene, do  you  not  feel  that  I  love  you  more  than  life  ?  For 
1  do,  Magdalene,  I  rfo.''  He  waited  for  a  reply. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  she  seemed  to  hear,  and  he  re- 
sumed : 

"  Magdalene,  you  are  so  pale,  and  cold,  and  strati  erf  ' 
I'ut  von  will  get  over  this,  my  lovo.  Magdalene,  I  toM 
von — did  I  not? — that  in  loving  yon,  in  winning  your  love, 
I  willed  your  largest  life  and  hoppim1^.  Magdnlene,  in 
fvi-ry  net  of  mine  toward  yon.  from  first  to  la^r.  I  have 
held  th«  same  purpose.  It  will  he  your  own  wtiakiu'«  if 


326  THE     TWO     SISTKHS. 

you  are  not  happy.  Magdalene,  be  reasonable,  be  strong, 
be  free  !"  He  paused  again. 

She  made  no  comment,  but  appeared  to  listen  quietly, 
and  he  went  on  : 

"  Your  social  position  is  an  eminently  happy  one.  Your 
freedom  from  family  and  social  ties — shackles — is  liberty 
indeed ;  a  liberty  that  very  few  are  blessed  with  Many,  1 
know,  would  consider  your  birth  and  condition  unfortunate. 
So  do  not  I !  Life  is  given  you,  filled  with  the  means  of 
happiness.  Your  strong  constitution,  your  fine  vital  tem- 
perament, your  perfect  health,  your  peerless  beauty,  your 
grace,  genius,  and  accomplishments,  and  last  and  best — 
your  crowning  glory — perfect  freedom,  form  a  combination 
of  felicitous  elements  rarely  brought  together  on  this  earth, 
and  offer  you  a  life,  a  happiness,  scarcely  to  be  paralleled 
in  this  world.  How  I  envy  you,  Magdalene  !  How  I, 
the  born  serf  of  rank,  of  conventionality,  of  public  senti- 
ment, of  'society,'  envy  you  the  nameless  birth  that  puts  no 
mark  of  ownership  upon  you — the  social  banishment,  that 
gives  to  you  largest  liberty  1  You  have  no  chains,  no  fet- 
ters, Magdalene.  See  that  in  the  fire  of  your  strong  pas- 
sions you  forge  none  for  your  limbs.  You  are  but  loo  apt 
to  do  it.  Women  such  as  you  make  thtir  own  tyrants. 
Had  I  lived  with  you  many  months  longer,  Magdalene, 
your  tender  subserviency,  your  passionate  devotion,  would 
have  made  me  the  most  selfish  and  exacting  man  alive. 
There  would  have  been  no  resisting  the  influence.  Why 
dc  you  not  speak  to  me,  Magdalene  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him — so  strangel 

"Do  you  know,  love,  that  it  will  not  do  for  you  to  stay 
here  ?  Do  you  know  that  you  must  go  home,  now  ?" 

She  arose  mechanically  and  look  her  bonnet. 

"Tell  me  where  you  live,  Magdalene;  I  will  come  and 
«ee  you." 

She  answered  as  au  automaton  might : 


D  ESI' AIR.  327 

"At  Ridgway's  Hotel,  Rutland  Place." 

Mournfully  she  stood  up,  and  mournfully  left  the  room. 

He  stepped  after  her,  drew  her  arm  within  his  own,  con- 
ducted  her  down-stairs,  and  placed  her  in  the  cab,  saying 
as  he  closed  the  door  of  the  carriage  : 

"  I  will  see  you  to-morrow,  Magdalene." 

And  the  cab  rolled  off. 

She  reached  her  hotel. 

She  got  to  her  room,  and  there  sank  down,  down  upon 
the  floor,  and  rolled  over,  with  her  forehead  in  the  dust  ; 
not  weeping,  nut  fainting,  but  humbled,  collapsed,  prostrate 
— with  no  feeling  of  resentment,  only  the  feeling  of  heart- 
broken desolation — of  utter,  final,  helpless  wretchedness! 

Mournfully  she  had  left  his  house — mournfully  she  had 
returned  to  her  lodgings.  She  had  made  no  attempt  to 
combat  his  purpose — no  attempt  to  change  her  destiny. 
She  felt  herself — what  she  was. 

Her  dream  of  love,  of  faith,  of  ambition,  and  of  great 
achievement,  was  at  once  and  forever  dispelled  1 — and  what 
was  life  to  her  now  ? 

She  had  lived  all  her  past  life  to  come  to — THIS.  She 
had  been  evoked  from  the  nothingness  of  non-existence  to 
confront — THIS — and  to  sink  again  into  nonentity. 

Life  had  been  a  failure,  a  mockery,  a  cheat,  a  taunt  ? 
She  wished  for  the  perfect  oblivion  of  death,  or  the  counter- 
irritation  of  pain  ;  but  death  nor  illness  would  come  at  her 
call.  Despite  all  the  spirit's  failing,  dying. — the  strong 
body  kept  up ! 

Wl-.sn  a  weak  spirit  fails  and  droops,  a  word  or  look  of 
kindness  or  of  encouragement,  is  sufficient  to  lift  the  light 
thing  up  again.  But  when  a  strong  spirit  falls,  nothing 
but  the  hand  of  Satan  or  the  arm  of  God  can  raise  it  And 
Miigdal'-ne  was  without  God  in  the  world. 

Let  the  curtain  fall  upon  this  picture  of  Jeath  in  life — 
despai". 


CHAPTER    XXV 

BLACK     ROCK. 

"  And  in  thy  heart  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas  tree : 
And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  cat-o-monntain 
Is  calm  an  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee  '."—Halleck. 

CLINTON,  Lord  Cliffe,  did  not  make  his  appearance  at 
Ridgeway's  Hotel  the  next  morning,  according  to  promise  ; 
nor  did  Magdalene  expect  him,  nor  think  whether  he  were 
unable,  or  unwilling  to  keep  his  engagement ;  nor  did  she 
even  remember  his  promise  ;  perhaps  she  did  not  even  hear 
him  make  it.  Her  whole  being  was  absorbed  in  other 
thoughts  and  feelings. 

Her  soul  had  passed  through  a  tremendous  crisis,  a 
terrible  experience.  She  had,  as  it  were,  suffered  death  ; 
and  a  new  resurrection,  more  awful  than  death  ! — a  "  resur- 
rection to  damnation  !"  for  all  that  was  best  in  her  was  left 
in  the  grave  of  her  blighted  past — and  all  that  was  worst  in 
her,  had  arisen,  and  was  alive,  feeble  indeed  as  infancy  at 
first,  but  growing  with  the  lapse  of  time,  into  great,  into 
mighty,  avenging,  demon-strength  ! 

One  fell  purpose  filled  her  life — Revenge!  This  had  not 
come  suddenly,  had  not  sprung  from  anger,  but  had  arisen 
slowly,  slowly,  sternly,  in  the  feeling  of  the  great  wrong 
done  her  ;  arousing  her  sense  of  that  inflexible  JUSTICE, 
that  with  unsparing  hand  metes  out  to  the  offender  the  full 
measure  of  his  offense ;  arousing  all  her  deep,  stern,  unfor- 
giving, unrelenting  Indian  nature,  that  could — through  any 
(328^ 


BLACK     BOCK.  329 

length  of  time  or  space,  or  any  amouut  of  obstacle — keep 
its  eye  upon  its  victim,  and  plot  and  wait  for  its  revenge  ; 
arousing  all  the  mighty  power  of  her  individual  self; 
that  comprehension  and  strength  of  intellect  that  could 
embrace  and  gather  all  its  great  and  varied  powers  to  a 
focus  ;  that  fire  and  force  of  passion  that  could  fuse  them, 
and  forge  them  into  one  weapon ;  and  that  strength  of 
will  that  could  drive  it  home  to  its  end — kindling  a  con- 
suming hate  that  must  burn  forever,  or  until  quenched  in 
the  heart's  blood  of  its  victim — and  smothered  in  the  ruin 
of  remorse ! 

This  did  not  spring  in  an  hour,  or  grow  in  a  day,  any 
more  than  it  could  decay  or  perish  in  the  lapse  of  months 
and  years.  But  daily,  weekly,  monthly,  yearly,  as  with  the 
natural  concentrativeness  of  her  mind,  and  intensity  01  ner 
passions,  she  brooded  over  her  great  wrong,  until  it  be- 
came the  one  idea  that,  however  diseased  itself,  in  its 
great  strength  and  unity  of  purpose  subjected  all  the 
other  strong  and  healthful  faculties  and  propensities  of 
the  brain  and  heart  to  its  demon  power  !  the  one  idea 
concentrated,  intensified,  precipitated  to  monomania  1 

And  this  was  the  condition  and  history  of  her  inner  life 
through  the  months  and  years  of  varied  action  that  followed 

In  a  few  days  and  before  she  had  recovered  from  the  shock 
that  had  prostrated  her,  she  discovered  that  Lord  Cliffe  had 
gone  abroad. 

Drawn  by  the  attraction  of  destiny,  rather  than  following 
the  volition  of  her  own  will,  she  left  London  for  Liverpool, 
whence  in  a  few  days  she  sailed  for  Norfolk,  where  she 
arrived  after  a  tedious  passage  of  six  weeks. 

During  her  passage  over,  her  plans  of  immediate  action 
had  been  laid  out. 

She  could  not  thiuk  of  going  to  her  friends — indeed,  as 


330  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

ail  her  soul  was  absorbed  in  one  great  passion,  her  desire  to 
see  them  was  very  feeble. 

Fortunately,  she  happened  to  have  with  her  the  packet 
of  testimonials,  and  letters  of  introduction  and  recom- 
mendation that  had  been  given  her  by  friends  and  acquain- 
tances when  she  had  first  left  home  to  go  as  a  governess 
into  the  world.  These  were  invaluable  to  her  now — they 
stood  in  lien  of  friends,  favor,  and  patronage. 

With  these,  stopping  but  a  night  in  Norfolk,  she  set 
out  on  a  journey  to  Kentucky,  determined  to  stop  at  the 
first  town  or  village  that  should  please  her,  and  there  to 
open  a  day-school. 

After  more  than  a  week's  journey  by  stage-coach, 
through  the  roughest,  though  the  most  picturesque  routes 
in  Virginia — she  crossed  the  border  line  into  Kentucky, 
through  a  pass  of  the  Cumberland  Mountains. 

They  came  to  the  little  hamlet  of  Black  Rock,  situated 
in  a  cleft  of  the  mountain,  which  had  nothing  to  recommend 
it  but  the  savage  aspect  of  the  scenery  in  unison  with  the 
morose  mood  of  her  own  mind.  Here  the  stage  remained 
all  night,  and  here  she  determined  to  stop  for  a  few  days, 
with  the  intention  of  surveying  the  capabilities  of  the  place 
for  Tier  purpose,  and  if  it  suited  her,  of  taking  up  her  abode 
there  for  the  present. 

The  morning  after  her  arrival  she  sent  for  the  landlord, 
and  began  to  make  the  necessary  inquiries  as  to  whether  the 
neighborhood  were  provided  with  a  school ;  if  it  were  not, 
whether  it  could  support,  a  school.  The  landlord  answered 
her  questions  hesitatingly,  looking  at  her  furtively  the 
while.  Her  youth,  her  remarkable  beauty,  her  unprotected 
situation,  tlie  independence  of  her  manner,  and  even  the 
richness  of  her  plain-dark  traveling  habit,  all  tended  to 
excite  suspicion.  Magdalene  read  this  on  his  countenance. 
It  did  not  daunt  or  distress  her  in  the  least. 


BLACK     ROCK.  331 

"  If  your  neighborhood  is,  as  is  most  probable,  in  want 
of  a  school,  and  if  it  can  give  a  teacher,  in  return  for  her 
services,  enough  for  the  merest  necessaries  of  life,  I  will 
remain  here  and  open  a  school.  I  like  the  air  of  the  moun- 
tains. I  like  the  looks  of  the  scenery,  and  I  have  brought 
with  me  testimonials  that  shall  satisfy  the  most  cautious 
of  your  citizens." 

The  longer  the  landlord  looked  at  her,  the  better  he 
thought  of  her.  He  saw  that  it  was  courage  and  self-reli- 
ance that  had  brought  her  without  protection  into  his 
neighborhood.  When,  at  last,  she  spoke  of  her  testimo- 
nials, he  lost  his  reserve,  and  admitted  that  the  neighborhood 
was  very  much  in  want  of  a  school,  and  gave  her  the  names 
of  the  most  prominent  citizens  in  that  sparsedly  settled 
cunntrv,  advising  her  to  see  and  confer  with  them. 

Many  of  them,  in  the  course  of  that  week,  Magdalene 
i-iiMed  upon.  Her  youth  and  beauty,  her  loveliness,  and  her 
•i'.ngnlar  enterprise,  excited  much  wonder  and  suspicion, 
that  was  finally  lost  in  admiration  of  her  self-reliance  and 
courage. 

How  little  did  they  know  how  much  those  qualities 
covt-red. 

Her  testimonials  were  perfectly  satisfactory.  Her  vonch- 
is  were  amoni;  the  most  eminent  and  respectable  men  in 
ih'  land.  What  was  there  to  fear,  or  to  suspect  ?  Nothing, 
'  iid  Magdalene  been  alive  to  her  better  nature.  But  all  her 
ac.inns,  not  withstanding  their  energy  and  rapidity,  were 
•uperficial. 

C  inlerneath  all,  like  a  sultfrranean  river,  rolled  on  the 
dark  current  of  her  master-passion  to  its  end. 

A  -chool-hoiise  was  built  for  her,  and  in  the  course  of  a 
H'w  weeks,  a  school  of  twenty  pupils  were  gathered  to- 
irether.  and  for  her  private  accommodation  board  was  ob- 
taiuol  hi  a  family  in  the  village. 


o32  THE      TWO     SISTERS. 

While  she  had  been  hi  energetic  action,  with  obstacles  to 
meet  and  overcome,  she  had  been,  in  some  degree,  diverted 
from  her  darker  thoughts,  and  passions,  and  purposes 
But  now  that  all  obstacles  were  surmounted,  and  all  difli- 
cnlties  were  cleared  from  her  path,  and  she  sat  down  quietly 
among  her  pupils,  her  strong,  restless,  unoccupied  energies, 
began  to  goad  and  sting  her,  to  torture  and  force  her  from 
the  quietness,  safety,  and  repose  of  her  present  life,  even 
as  they  had  done  twice  before. 

Once,  when  the  vague  longings  of  strong  life  for  full  and 
free  expression,  had  prompted  her  first  effort  to  leave  the 
home  of  her  childhood. 

Again,  when  love  was  her  master-motive,  and  she  had 
broken  wildly,  recklessly,  from  the  protection  of  her  friends, 
and  cast  herself  alone  into  the  whirlpool  of  life  for  the 
bare  chance  of  meeting  her  beloved,  or  losing  the  sense  of 
dull  disappointment  in  the  whirl  and  jar  and  rapid  change 
of  scenes  and  events. 

Now,  neither  love  nor  ambition  ruled  her,  but  the  darker 
passion  that  arose  upon  the  ruins  of  both.  To  the  unrest 
of  her  spirit,  intolerable  beyond  endurance,  was  the  mo- 
notony of  her  present  mode  of  life.  And  she  had  not  been 
there  many  weeks  before  she  resolved  to  quit  it.  Rush, 
hurry,  whirl,  excitement,  was  what  she  wanted.  The  affec- 
tion of  her  pupils  and  the  kindness  of  their  parents,  could 
no  more  soothe  the  fierceness  of  her  mental  malady,  than 
summer  breezes  could  heal  a  bnrn.  The  unrest,  the  ws>r 
of  her  spirit  must  seek  peace  in  strife,  rest  in  struggle. 

Her  taste  for  the  histrionic  art  had  never  left  her.  It 
recurred  to  her  now  in  great  power.  Many  things  conspired 
to  urge  and  to  attract  her  to  this  fascinating  but  laborious 
and  perilous  profession  :  general  fitness  for  the  art — a 
physical  organization  remarkable  for  fearless  beauty,  won- 
derful strength,  and  marvelous  power  of  expression  ;  lastly, 


BLACK      ROCK.  333 

the  conscious  possession  of  the  very  highest  order  of  his 
trionic  genius,  and  a  very  strong  vocation  for  the  profes- 
sion. Besides,  it  offered  her  life,  action,  excitement,  and 
perhaps : 

The  means  to  an  end,  to  which,  underneath  all  these 
things,  the  deep  but  poignant  sense  of  wrong  goaded  her. 

Magdalene  warned  her  employers  that  she  would  leave 
them  at  the  end  of  the  ensuing  term,  advising  them  at  the 
same  time  to  advertise  for  a  teacher  to  take  her  school, 
whicn  was  now  in  a  very  flourishing  condition.  Her  patrons 
opposed  her  resolution,  and  sought  to  induce  her  to  stav  ; 
but  Magdalene,  with  her  customary  contumacy,  resisted  all 
arguments,  entreaties,  and  inducements,  laughing  aloud, 
when,  as  a  last  bribe,  they  offered  to  raise  her  salary. 

At  the  end  of  the  terra,  therefore,  Magdalene,  bearing 
with  her  that  invaluable  packet  of  testimonials,  as  a  safe- 
guard against  continued  misconstruction  and  insult — left 
Black  Rock  for  the  Eastern  city  which  she  had  fixed  upoi 
as  the  theatre  of  her  new  enterprise. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

THE     ACTRESS. 

"  Eloquence  ! — her  gift  is  thine  which  reaches 
The  heart  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport."— ffalUck. 

EVERY  once  in  awhile  our  story  approximates  so  near  the 
literal  truth,  that  I  tremble  for  those,  yet  living,  who  were 
concerned  in  its  events.  And  so  it  is  in  the  present  in- 
stance— for  I  think  that  many  of  our  oldest  theatregoers 
will  recollect  the  debutante  of  whom  I  am  about  to  write. 


334:  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

jtnd  the  extreme,  though  short-lived  enthusiasm,  that  greeted 
her  debut  at  the  Old  Federal  Street  Theatre,  Boston— po.-- 
hible  not  though — possibly  her  short  and  brilliant  careei 
may  have  entirely  passed  from  the  memory  of  man — no  fame 
in  so  ephemeral  as  that  of  the  histrionic  "  star" — or,  more 
properly — comet. 

It  was  just  before  the  opening  of  the  two  great  theatres 
for  the  winter  campaign,  that  Magdalene  reached  Boston 
Though  very  short  in  funds,  it  was  a  part  of  her  policy  to 
go  at  once  to  the  best,  and  consequently  the  most  expen- 
sive hotel  ,in  the  city.  Here  she  engaged  a  chamber  and 
private  parlor,  and  from  this  place  she  addressed  a  note  to 
Mr.  P ,  the  manager  of  the  first  theatre  in  the  city,  re- 
questing an  interview,  and  stating  her  reason  for  desiring  it 
^  The  next  day  she  received  a  civil  reply  to  her  note,  de- 
clining the  proposed  interview,  and  stating  that  the  mana- 
ger's arrangements  for  the  ensuing  season  were  all  com- 
pleted. Magdalene  smiled  to  herself  at  this  answer.  It  was 
just  what  she  expected,  and  was  prepared  for — for  what 

indeed  should  Mr.  P know  of  her,  her  character  and 

purpose,  her  personal  appearance,  or  her  capabilities — she 
might  be  old,  ugly,  and  conceited,  for  aught  that  he  knew, 
or  cared  to  know  to  the  contrary — but  she  knew  that  she 
was  young,  vigorous,  beautiful,  talented,  and  resolute.  She 
xvmte  to  !iim  again — in  this  strain — 

"All  that  I  request  of  you  is  to  come  and  see  me — to 
hear  me  read  and  recite — then  if  you  are  not  disposed  to 
>ilVr  me  an  engagement,  I  shall  assuredly  not  press  the 
matter  upon  you,  any  more  than  I  shall  repeat  this  request 
Hgain,  if  now  it  be  refused.  Listen:  You  would  not  mind 
i he  outlay  of  five  dollars  upon  a  lottery  ticket  fur  the 
Jianrc,  one  in  a  thousand,  of  winning  a  prize.  Valuable 
u>  voiir  precious  time  may  be,  it  cannot  be  worth  /»o/r  to 
yen  diau  live  dollars  the  half-how.  Speud  that  hail-hour 


THE     ACTRESS.  336 

with  me  as  you  would  spend  five  dollars  on  a  lottery  ticket, 
for  the  chance  of  winning  a  prize.  If  the  ticket,  myself, 
turn  out  a  prize,  the  half-hour  has  been  well  expended.  If 
a  blank,  you  will  have  only  lost — half-an-hour.  As  for  me, 
I  kno\v  myself,  and  have  no  doubt  or  fear  as  to  the  result 
of  our  interview.  It  is  proper  to  say  to  you,  that  in  the 
event  of  your  now  declining  my  proposition,  I  shall  imme- 
diately apply  to  the  manager  of  the  Tremont  Street  Theatre. 
My  motive  for  giving  your  establishment  the  preference, 
being  merely  the  respect  for  its  greater  age." 

There  is  something  in  sound  faith  that  is  very  contagious. 
When  one  is  thoroughly  persuaded  of  any  one  thing,  it  is 
comparatively  easy  to  persuade  others  of  the  same.  The 
calm  assurance,  as  well  perhaps  as  the  oddity  of  this  letter, 

brought  Mr.  P the  same  day  to  the  hotel,  to  see,  as  he 

afterward  said,  what  strange  sort  of  an  individual  it  was 
that  could  write  such  a  queer  letter.  When  he  was  intro- 
duced in  Magdalene's  private  parlor,  and  found  a  young, 
strong,  and  beautiful  woman  awaiting  him,  his  countenance 
betrayed  a  curious  blending  and  conflict  of  more  emotions 
than  it  is  needful  to  enumerate  and  classify.  Magdaleu 
arose  to  receive  him. 

"Miss  Mountjoy,  I  presume,"  said  he,  bowing. 

Magdalene  inclined  her  head  in  an  affirmative,  and  set 
him  a  chair.  He  took  it,  and  not  to  lose  any  time,  or  to 
give  him  any  chance  of  misunderstanding  her,  Magdalene 
at  once  opened  the  object  of  the  interview,  by  saying, 

Mr.  P ,  I  have  been  a  governess  and  a  school-mis- 
tress— the  profession  of  a  teacher  is  not  at  all  to  my  taste, 
and  1  desire  to  change  it  for  one  very  opposite  in  every  re- 
spect— for  that  of  the  stage,  for  which  I  have  a  strong  vo- 
cation, and  some  genius,  which  you  may  put  to  the  test.  But 
first,  as  you  are,  or  should  be,  interested  for  the  personal 
respectability  oe  an  applicant — these  are  my  testimonials." 


33o  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

And  she  laid  her  packet  before  the  eyes  of  the  astonished 
manager.  He  certainly  had  not  expected  this.  He  opened 
them,  and  glanced  at  them  merely  as  a  matter  of  form.  He 
saw  that  they  were  what  they  professed  to  be.  He  lied 
them  up  and  returned  them.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  a 
strong  curiosity  and  interest  in  the  beautiful  girl  before 
him,  whose  manner  was  so  full  at  once  of  freedom  and  re- 
serve. 

"Pardon  me — have  you  no  family,  young  lady — no 
friends  ?" 

"  None  nearer  and  having  greater  claims  upon  me  than 
those  whose  names  stand  at  the  foot  of  my  testimonials  ; 
but,  Mr.  P ,  I  do  not  wish  to  take  up  more  of  your  val- 
uable time  than  is  strictly  necessary.  I  am  ready  to  read, 
or  recite  for  you  as  soon  as  you  please." 

"  What  line  of  character  do  you  propose  for  yourself  ?" 
inquired  the  manager. 

"  The  sterner  impersonations  of  tragedy — Lady  Mac- 
beth—" 

"Ah,"  said  the  manager,  with  as  much  incredulity  in  his 
face  as  was  polite  to  let  appear. 

"Yes!  I  could  play  Lady  Macbeth,  Clytemnestra,  Elec- 
tra,  Medea,  Joan  D'Arc,  Elvira — and  that  role.  I  do  not 
think  I  could  personate  well  the  soft  and  gentle,  and  love- 
lorn characters  even  of  tragedy.  I  could  not  enter  into  and 
impersonate  Juliet,  Ophelia,  or  Desdemona.  No !  I  could 
understand,  enter  into,  and  impersonate  Richard  III.  with 
more  effect." 

"  Youthful  lovers  of  this  art,  however,  seldom  know  how 
much  or  how  little  they  may  be  able  to  do  in  any  particular 
line.  It  is  common  for  those  who  fancy  themselves  quali- 
fied by  talent  for  the  highest  walks  of  tragedy,  to  be  very  fit 
tor  low  comedy,  and  for  nothing  else.  It  is  curious  that  the 
young  and  happy  invariably  prefer  tragedy,  or  melodratue 


THE     ACTRESS.  887 

before  comedy.  It  is  because  they  have  no  misery  of  their 
own,  that  fictitious  misery  possesses  the  zest  of  novelty  for 
them." 

"  I  said  that  you  could  test  my  abilities,  sir,"  s#id  Mag- 
dalene, with  some  little  hauteur. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — I  shall  be  pleased,  Miss  a — Mount 
— to  hear  you  read  the  Supper  Scene  in  Macbeth." 

Magdalene  took  her  pocket-edition  of  Shakspeare  from 
the  table,  and  turning  to  the  scene,  commenced  and  read  it 
without  the  least  falter  or  mistake  through  nervous  trepida- 
tion. 

"  You  have,  among  others,  two  very  rare  requisites  of 
success  in  a  debutante." 

"  Hardihood  and  effrontery,  I  suppose  you  mean  ?" 

"Self-esteem  and  self-command." 

"  Simple  strength  of  physical  organization,  sir — are  you 
satisfied  with  me  iu  other  respects,  or  shall  I  read  any  thing 
else  ?" 

-  "  Yes — if  you  please — Juliet's  Hymn  to  the  Night — I 
enould  like  to  test  your  abilities  in  the — in  what  you  call, 
with  some  irreverence,  the  '  love-lorn'  parts." 

"  I  do  not  like  it!  nevertheless — "  and  Magdalene  turning 
to  the  right  page  read  that. 

"Very  fair,  very  fair  indeed." 

"But  the  other  scene — the  Supper  Scene  in  Macbeth — I 
hope  it  met  your  expectations  ?" 

"Decidedly  not,  Miss  Mountjoy,"  said  the'manager,  with 
n  singular  smile.  "  I  see  that  you  pique  yourself  upon  your 
reading  of  this  particular  sort  of  thing — but — pardon  me — 
have  you  ever  had  the  advantage  of  comparing  your  own 
•omewhat  novel  style  of  reading  with  that  of  others — have 
MI  ever,  in  short,  seen  the  play  of  Macbeth — for  instance 

performed  ?" 

'  Yes  !  seve-al  times — you  look  surprised  !" 


838 


THE     TWO     SISTERS. 


"  I  am.  Your  conception  of  the  character  of  Lady  Mac- 
octh,  your  style  of  reading  the  part,  strikes  me  as  so  entirely 
original,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  so  full  of  truth  and  nature, 
that  I  had  supposed — " 

"What?" 

"  Well,  in  fact,  that  you  could  have  had  no  opportunity 
of  copying  the  manner  of  another.  The  histrionic  art  is  emi- 
nently an  imitative  one.  A  great  actor  fixes  a  certain  style 
of  playing  a  character,  and  all  the  lesser  actors,  with  more 
or  less  precision,  copy  that.  It  is  difficult  not  to  imitate. 
Original  genius,  in  any  art,  I  think,  comes,  not  from  those 
educated  in,  and  familiar  with  its  common  routine — hut — 
from  those  new  and  unfamiliar  with  it.  Benjamin  West  is 
an  instance  among  the  painters.  You  have  certainly  strong 
and  striking  originality  of  conception  and  style,  but 
that  is  what  I  cannot  understand  in  a  frequenter  of  the 
theatre." 

"  I  never  was  a  frequenter  of  dramatic  entertainments ; 
and,  moreover,  my  style  was  formed  before  I  ever  saw  a 
play." 

"  That  accounts  for  it." 

"But — you  have,  as  yet,  evaded  the  main  question — are 
you  satisfied — will  you  give  me  an  opportunity  of  submit- 
ting my  histrionic  abilities,  great  or  small,  to  public  criticism 
in  a  debut  ?" 

"  I  am  more  than  satisfied.  I  told  you  that  you  had  not 
mef  my  expectations — you  have  not,  inasmuch  as  I  expected 
my  expended  half  hour  would  have  drawn  a  blank,  whereas 
it  has  drawn  a  prize." 

"  You  are  satisfied  then  ?" 

"  Perfectly." 

''And  your  'arrangements  for  the  season  are' — not-  — 
completed  ?'  "  said  Magdalene,  with  a  half-suppressed  sar- 
donic smile. 


THE     ACTRESS.  339 

''Not  until  I  have  arranged  with  you  the  preliminaries  of 
a  debut,  and  perhaps  afterward — the  terms  of  an  engage- 
ment ;  and  for  this  purpose  I  will  call  on  you — again — at 
— your  first  convenient  hour." 

"To-morrow,  then,  at  this  time,"  said  Magdalene,  and 
the  manager  bowed  himself  out. 

Faithful  to  his  engagement,  he  called  the  next  day  at  the 
appointed  hour,  and  in  that  interview  it  was  arranged  that 
as  Magdalene  wished,  for  many  reasons,  to  leave  her  hotel, 
she  should,  for  the  present,  take  up  her  abode  with  the 
family  of  the  manager,  who,  with  his  wife  and  daughters,  re- 
sided in  the  city.  It  was  further  stipulated  that  she  should 
enter  her  new  profession  under  a  nomine  deplnmi:  by  whiel 
she  should  be  known  in  private  as  in  public  life.  Thus — 
in  having  selected  a  city  as  far  from  the  scenes  of  her  child- 
hood as  was  then  practicable,  and  in  having  changed  her 
name,  Magdalene  had  cut  off  every  external  link  that  bound 
her  to  her  former  life  and  associations. 


The  character  selected  for  her  debut  was  that  of  Lady 
Macbeth — the  day  of  her  first  appearance  was  fixed  at  some 
weeks  distance,  in  order  to  give  the  debutante  the  advan- 
tage of  many  rehearsals  in  which  to  become  familiarized 
with  the  mecamquti  of  the  stage,  and  to  prepare  the  new 
scenery  and  new  costumes  that  were  to  lend  additional  at- 
traction and  eclal  to  the  occasion. 

The  night  of  the  debut  at  length  arrived — every  circum 
stance  was  fortunate — the  weather  was  very  fine — the  debu- 
tante herself  in  high  health  and  beauty — the  corps  drama- 
tiqiie  in  good  order,  and  what  was  better  in  goo<l  humor  — 
and  the  public,  it  would  appear,  propitious.  Magdalene 
dressed  for  her  part  without  the  least,  doubt,  fear,  or  m-m  u- 
ol  the  nerves,  and  smiled  scornfully  when  her  eha;  riviie, 
Mrs.  I' ,  herself  an  <irti*>ie  of  superior  merit,  advised 


840  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

her  not  to  think  of  the  audience  as  a  collection  of  sentient 
Aidividuals,  but  to  look  upon  it  as  a  mere  panorama  of 
faces. 

"  I  shall  certainly  look  at  the  audience  and  pick  out  some 
one  to  speak  at,1'  said  Magdalene.  "  I  know,  beforehand, 
that  I  cannot  play  to  vacancy.  Now  give  me  the  property 
•letter'  for  my  hour  has  come,"  and  so  saying,  as  com- 
posedly as  though  she  had  been  a  veteran  of  the  boards, 
Magdalene  sauntered  through  the  side  scenes  and  took  her 
place  upon  the  stage.  A  round  of  applause  accorded  to 
the  young,  beautiful,  and  majestic  woman,  or,  to  the  debu- 
tante, rather  than  to  the  genius  of  which  they,  as  yet,  knew 
nothing,  greeted  her  entrance.  Neither  did  this  enthusiastic 
welcome  hurry,  in  the  least,  the  well-governed  pulses  that 
beat  faster  or  slower  only  by  her  own  will.  She  stood 
there,  indeed,  the  stern  inflexible  woman — the  woman  of 
"demoniac  firmness"  whom  she  came  to  personate,  conscious 
b'«t  careless  of  her  coming  triumph. 

Her  debut  was,  as  had  been  confidently  expected,  a  com- 
plete triumph.  But  all  successful  debuts  are  so  much  alike, 
the  same  "enthusiastic  greetings,"  the  same  "rounds  of 
applause,"  the  same  showers  of  "  bouquets"  and  "  wreaths" 
welcomed  the  entrances,  attended  the  scenes,  and  followed 
the  exits  of  our  debutante,  and  the  curtain  finally  fell,  amid 
a  tempest  of  acclamation,  in  which  the  nomme  de  plume  of 
the  new  favorite  was  the  only  distinguishable  word.  At- 
tended by  the  manager,  she  obeyed  the  stormy  summons,  by 
entering  at  the  right  of  the  stage,  passing  before  the  cur- 
tain, conrtesying,  and  passing  off  at  the  left.  In  answer  to 
the  congratulations  of  the  well-pleased  manager,  Magda- 
lene's lip  curled  in  scorn,  as  she  said, 

"Yes,  they  have  patted  me  on  the  head  !  Pity  I  huvo 
not  lubricity  and  flexibility  enough  to  wriggle  and  twist  as 
»  (log  should,  when  receiving  such  distinguished  marks  of 


THE     ACTRESS.  841 

approbation.  Pah !  In  a  word,  I  do  not  like  this  sort  of 
reception.  Think  of  the  thrice-distilled  quintessence  of  ab- 
surdity in  showering  flowers  upon — a  murderess  ! — as  they 
did  in  that  murderhig  scene.  I  do  not  think  that  I  have  a 
very  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous — I  am  too  much  in  ear- 
nest ;  yet,  had  it  not  been  for  the  faculty  of  thoroughly  losing 
individual  identity  in  an  ideal  impersonation,  I  should  have 
ruined  myself  and  you  by  laughing  out  in  the  midst  of  all 
that  folly.  What  do  they  mean  ?  Real  and  sound  appre- 
ciation would  not  have  manifested  itself  in  that  way.  No ! 
If  my  acting  really  merited  approbation,  I  did  not  really 
get  it.  All  that  fuss  was — fustian  !  nothing  more.  Gen- 
uine approbation  of  a  play  and  part  so  sombre  as  that, 
would  not  have  been  so  noisy — would  not  have  vented  itself 
in  a  shower  of  flowers.  At  all  events,  I  will  not  go  before 
the  curtain  if  they  call  me  again — that  is  certain.  For  my 
own  private  pleasure,  and  the  enjoyment  I  find  in  the  art, 
as  well  as  for  their  entertainment,  I  will  use  my  best  abili- 
ties in  the  role  for  which  I  am  engaged.  Yes,  in  letter  and 
in  spirit,  I  will  keep  'the  bond' — but  beyond  that,  I  will 
not  go." 

This  was  the  haughty,  scornful  spirit  in  which  Magdalene 
received  the  testimonials  of  public  favor.  Two  years  be- 
fore, she  could  not  have  been  so  bitter  and  ungrateful 
This  was  the  instance  of  a  great  soul  ruined  by  a  great 
wrong.  Now  she  looked  upon  herself  and  the  world  with  a 
jaundiced  eye,  and  from  a  false  point  of  view,  as  antago- 
nists. 

"  I  do  not  ask  its  pity,  its  sympathy,  its  love,  its  admira- 
tion. I  ask  only  a  quid  pro  quo  for  value  received  1"  she 
said,  in  the  stern  and  savage  acrimony  of  her  heart. 

So  went  off  her  debut. 
21 


CHAPTER    XXYII. 

THE    DEEP     HE  ART. 

1  One  fatal  remembrance,  one  Borrow  that  throw* 
Its  shadow  alike  o'er  her  joys  and  her  woes, 
Than  which  life  nothing  brighter  nor  darker  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm,  or  afflictiou  no  sting."— Moore. 

IT  was  natural  and  deplorable  that  the  profession  chosen 
by  Magdalene — the  particular  role  of  characters  taken  by 
her — the  passions,  emotions,  and  sentiments  adopted  as  her 
own  for  the  time — should  have  tended  to  foster  that  very 
spirit  of  hate  and  revenge,  which  had  taken  complete  pos- 
session of  her  heart.  But  in  the  very  fact  of  having  pre- 
ferred this  line  of  strong  demoniac  creations — and  of  per- 
sonating such  with  the  greatest  power,  she  was  true  to  the 
stern  and  cruel  unity  of  her  own  spirit  and  purpose. 

Yes !  amidst  all  her  multifarious  occupations  and  amuse- 
ments, the  fell  purpose  of  her  soul  was  remembered — under 
all  the  superficial  excitements  of  her  life,  the  deep  strong 
under-current  of  her  soul  rolled  onward  to  its  fatal  consum- 
mation. 

She  had  many  admirers,  some  suitors.  Among  the 
number  of  the  latter  was  one  whose  pusition  scarcely 
entitled  him  to  the  distinction — il  Signor  Bastiennelli,  an 
Italian,  the  leader  of  the  orchestra — and  whom  no  degree  of 
coldness,  hauteur,  or  scorn  could  possibly  discourage  or 
repulse.  He  devoted  himself  to  Magdalene  with  the  most 
determined  persistence,  yet  with  a  manner  that  so  admira- 
bly blended  high  respect  with  deep  affection,  that  no  open 
offense  could  be  taken. 

Magdalene  concluded  a  long  engagement,  and  a  longer 
(342) 


THE     DEEP     HKAKf  S43 

re-engagement  at  Boston,  and  then  set  out  southward  on  a 
professional  tour,  stoppping  at  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
Baltimore,  Washington,  Charleston,  and  so  on  to  New 
Orleans — only  avoiding  Richmond  in  her  route.  Signer 
Bastieunelli  distinguished  himself  by  breaking  his  compact 
with  the  managers  of  the  Old  Federal  Street  Theatre,  leav- 
ing Boston  and  following  his  guiding  star,  or  rather  his 
misleading  comet,  on  her  erratic  orbit.  To  leave  metaphor, 
the  Signor  Bastiennelli  made  himself  very  conspicuous  by 
his  pursuit  of  the  new  favorite — traveling  in  the  stages  and 
steamboats  in  which  she  traveled,  stopping  at  the  cities 
where  she  stopped,  putting  up  at  the  hotels  where  she 
boarded,  and  going  to  the  theatre  every  night  when  she 
performed — where,  seated  in  the  middle  seat  of  the  front 
row  of  the  pit,  immediately  before  the  foot-lights,  he  would 
lean  forward,  prop  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  prop  his  black 
muzzled  chin  upon  his  palms,  and  pour  from  under  his 
shaggy  and  lowering  brows,  consuming  streams  of  fire  upon 
his  inamorata,  from  the  moment  of  her  entree  on  the  scene 
until  that  of  her  exit,  when,  relaxing  all  his  muscles,  he 
would  sigh  heavily,  sink  back,  and  smolder  out. 

It  was  on  her  return  tour,  that,  still  followed  by  her 
satelite,  Bastiennelli,  Magdalene  stopped  at  Washington  to 
fulfill  a  short  engagement.  One  night,  when  personating 
the  Queen,  in  her  own  tragedy  of  Gyges — in  the  midst  of 
that  one  scene  between  the  arrogant  and  outraged  Queen 
and  the  King's  favorite  and  colleague,  in  which  the  former 
assures  the  latter  that  himself  or  his  royal  master,  one  of 
the  two  men  whose  gaze  had  feloniously  profaned  the 
sacreclness  of  her  unvailed  beauty,  must  die,  and  that  she 
would  live  the  wife  of  the  survivor — in  the  midst  of  this 
scene  the  eyes  of  Magdalene  turned  and  fell  upon  LORD 
CLIFFE,  seated  in  the  box  of  the  British  Minister,  imme- 
diately in  front  of  the  stage. 


844  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

He  had  recognized  her  evidently  ;  their  eyes  met — hia 
full  of  tenderness,  hers  blazing.  Did  she  pause  or  falter  ? 
No  !  A  great  impulse  was  given  to  her  heart  and  brain, 
and  she  played  out  her  part  to  the  end  with  unprecedented 
power  and  passion — "  bringing  down  the  house"  in  a  tem- 
pest of  enthusiastic  applause. 

When  the  performance  was  over  she  was  about  to  retire 
by  the  stage  door  to  her  carriage  that  was  in  waiting,  she 
met  Lord  Cliffe  face  to  face. 

"  Magdalene,  my  lost  love !"  he  began,  in  a  rich,  full, 
tender  voice,  taking  her  hand. 

"STOP!"  she  exclaimed,  snatching  her  hand  away  and 
folding  her  arms,  while  her  countenance  darkened,  her  eyes 
fired,  and  she  said  in  the  low,  deep  thunder-tone  of  intense 
hate :  "  You  are  deceived  in  me — your  address  shows  it. 
When  we  parted  last,  I  left  you  under  a  false  impression. 
You  supposed  me  heart-crushed,  spirit-broken,  and  so  I 
was ;  and  you  supposed  me  docile,  submissive,  because  I 
was  quiet,  and  so  I  was  not ;  for,  mark  you,  my  quietness 
was  the  quietness  of  the  STUNNED  LION — not  of  the  lamb  ! 
I  come  of  that  Red  race  who  never  yet  betrayed  a  friend 
or  forgave  a  traitor !  Yet,  as  I  am  avenging  and  not 
traitorous  or  deceitful,  I  could  not  strike  without  warning 
you.  I  am  your  MORTAL  FOE  !"  and  thus  as  it  were,  throw- 
down  the  gauntlet  of  a  fell  defiance,  before  he  had  recov- 
ered from  his  surprise  she  folded  her  mantle  around  her, 
passed  before  him  and  stepped  into  her  carriage,  which  was 
immediately  driven  off. 

"  Monomaniac  !"  muttered  Lord  Cliffe,  as  he  too  left  the 
premises. 

Magdalene  returned  to  her  hotel,  where,  in  her  private 
parlor,  she  found  Bastiennelli  awaiting  her  return  to  renew 
and  press  his  snit.  Magdalene  listened  to  him  with  more 
favor  and  patience  than  she  had  ever  shown  bffore.  When 


T  II  K     DEEP     HEART  845 

he  had  urged  all  he  had  to  say  again  and  again,  with  all 
the  eloquence,  energy,  fire,  and  passion  of  his  race  and 
clime,  Magdalene  said  to  him  : 

"  Signor,  leave  me  now,  and  to-morrow,  near  this  hour, 
J  pledge  you  my  word  that  I  will  give  you  an  answer." 

And  he  left  her  full  of  hope. 

The  next  morning  she  raised  the  Italian  to  the  seventh 
heaven  of  happiness  by  permitting  him  to  go  with  her  to 
the  rehearsal.  At  night  again  she  allowed  him  to  wait  on 
her  to  the  theatre  and  attend  her  behind  the  scenes.  It 
was  at  the  close  of  the  first  act  that  Magdalene  entered 
upon  the  vacant  stage — then  separated  by  the  canvas  cur- 
tain from  the  audience — and  while  the  men  were  shifting 
some  back  scenes,  beckoned  the  Signor  Bastiennelli  to  the 
left-hand  front  entrance,  where  she  stood.  He  came  to  her 
side,  startled,  astounded  by  the  expression  of  stern,  relent- 
less determination  upon  her  face,  as  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm,  and  pressing  it  until  he  shrank,  said,  in  the  same 
low,  deep  tone  of  earnestness — 

"  You  love  me,  you  say  ?" 

"  St.  Peter  !  lady— yes  !" 

"  Signor  !  for  one  I  should  love,  I  would,  if  needful,  lose 
my  soul.  How  much  would  you  do  for  one  you  love  ?" 
she  said,  her  fingers  pressing  his  arm  like  a  vice,  and  her 
eyes  intently  fixed  on  his,  striking  their  glances  deep  into 
his  soul. 

"  Lady  !   try  me  !"  aspirated  the  Italian,  in  a  deep  voice. 

She  drew  him  within  an  angle,  between  the  side  scene 
and  the  curtain,  where,  unseen  themselves,  they  had  a  full 
view  of  the  audience  ;  and  pressing  again  his  arm,  with  the 
same  vice-like  grasp,  she  pointed  to  a  gentleman  who  occu- 
pied, alone,  the  British  Minister's  box,  and  said — 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  ?" 

The  quick,  piercing  eyes  of  the  Italian  followed  her  index, 


«J-i8  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  He  is  a  very  handsome  man,"  said  she,  mockingly. 

The  Italian  frowned. 

"  And  very  gracefully  accomplished,  and  fascinating." 

The  Italian  scowled  darkly. 

"  I  loved  him  once,  and  it  was  for  him  I  would  have 
gone  to  perdition,  had  he — " 

The  Italian  had  started  violently  at  the  commencement 
of  this  sentence,  and  now  stood  gazing  at  him  with  the  con- 
suming fire  of  jealousy  and  rage  burning  in  his  eyes  with 
less  fierceness  than  they  burned  in  his  heart. 

"  Had  he  been  true  to  me.  But  he  was  false.  He  LIED 
to  me.  He  won  my  hand  in  a  false  marriage,  by  a  LIE. 
Had  he  committed  the  higher  crime  of  killing  my  body,  the 
laws  of  the  land  would  have  demanded  his  life.  He  has 
perpetrated  the  greater  atrocity  of  destroying  my  life  of  life 
— and  the  laws  have  no  adequate  justice  for  me.  I  should  be- 
come a  mockery,  a  by-word,  a  laughing-stock  by  making  an 
appeal  to  them  !  I  must  avenge  myself.  I  am  of  a  savage 
race,  who  never  forget  or  forgive  !  I  have  registered  a  vow 
never  to  marry  while  my  mortal  foe  lives  !  You  are  an 
Italian  !  You  understand  me  I" 

"  St.  Judas,  Signorina  !  you  demand  this  man's  death  as 
the  price  of  your  hand  I"  exclaimed  the  Italian,  appalled. 

"  It  is  the  sacrifice  to  a  stern  JUSTICE  that  I  demand," 
said  Magdalene. 

"  Lady  !  I  will  give  you  your  answer  to-morrow,"  said 
the  Italian,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  and  in  a  deep,  signifi- 
cant tone. 

Magdalene  left  him  and  passed  out — her  countenance 
darkly  illumined  with  the  lurid  light  of  a  stern  triumph. 

Magdalene  saw  nothing  more  of  the  Italian  until  late  the 
next  night — the  last  night  of  her  engagement  at  Washing- 


THE     DEEP     HEART.  347 

ton — when  she  was  to  appear  in  her  own  original  character 
of  the  Queen,  in  the  tragdey  of  Candaules.  At  the  rising 
of  the  curtain,  she  looked  anxiously  for  Lord  Cliffe,  and 
missed  him  from  among  the  audience.  The  drama  pro- 
gressed, and  still  he  did  not  come.  The  drop-scene  fell  at 
the  end  of  the  first  act,  and  arose  at  the  commencement  of 
the  second,  and  yet  he  had  not  made  his  appearance. 
Finally,  the  green  curtain  fell  upon  the  last  scene  in  the  last 
act  of  the  tragedy,  and  Magdalene  left  the  theatre  in  a  state 
of  intense  anxiety.  The  continued  absence  of  the  Italian, 
together  with  that  of  Lord  Cliffe,  filled  her  with  the  most 
horrible  conjectures.  She  thought  a  vengeance  as  complete 
— a  tragedy  as  terrible — had  that  day  been  enacted  in  real 
life,  as  the  one  presented  that  night  upon  the  stage.  She 
returned  to  her  lodgings  in  a  mood  of  dark,  morose,  bat 
suppressed  excitement.  She  sent  to  the  bar  to  inquire  for 
the  Siguor  Bastiennelli,  and  received  word  that  he  had  not 
been  in  since  the  preceding  night.  She  sent  again  with  the 
request  that  he  might  wait  on  her  in  her  apartment  as  soon 
as  he  should  return  ;  and  then  she  sat  down  firmly,  sternly, 
rigidly,  restraining  the  frenzy  that  was  racking  heart  and 
brain,  as  her  soul  shuddered — shuddered  upon  the  dread 
boundary  line  that  separates  the  purpose  from  the  deed, 
the  revenge  from  the  REMORSE. 

The  clock  struck  the  hour  of  one — of  two — and  the 
Italian  Irul  not  yet  returned.  In  an  hour  more  she  was  to 
ici.vf  \V-i .  hington  Her  place  had  been  taken  in  the  st;ige 
that  was  to  leave  Washington  at  three  o'clock  for  Baltimore, 
A  here  she  wag  engaged  to  appear  at  the  principal  tin-litre 
the  next  evening.  But  her  engagement  and  her  speedy  de- 
parture were  both  forgotten  in  the  fatal  concentration  of  In  r 
thoughts,  and  intensity  of  her  emotions  on  one  fell  subject, 
and  she  remained  in  the  same  fixed  position  of  self-guarded, 
self-governed  madness,  until  the  clock  struck  a  quarter  to 


348  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

three,  when  a  loud  rap  at  her  chamber  door  startled  her. 
It  was  the  chamber-maid,  come  to  tell  her  that  the  stage 
was  at  the  door,  and  bringing  a  porter  to  take  down  her 
baggage.  Never  in  her  life  had  Magdalene  broken  an  en- 
gagement, and  with  her  habitual  justice,  she  determined  not 
to  break  this,  but  to  depart  even  without  seeing  Bastinnelli. 
She  directed  the  porter  to  take  down  her  trunks,  and  rising, 
with  apparently  perfect  calmness,  put  on  her  traveling 
dress,  and  was  preparing  to  follow,  when  a  hurried  step  was 
heard  upon  the  stairs,  and  Bastinnelli,  travelstained  and 
travelworn,  stood  before  her. 

"  For  the  Virgin's  sake,  Signorina,  one  moment ! — 
come  !"  and  he  took  her  hand  and  hurried  her  back  into  the 
private  parlor. 

"  Well,  speak  !"  said  Magdalene,  in  a  deep,  but  steady 
voice — "  speak,  and  quickly !  shortly  1  for  I  have  little 
time  to  lose  ;  the  coach  starts  in  less  than  half  an  hour !" 

Yes  !  though  reason  shook  upon  her  throne,  Magdalene 
remembered,  and  governed  herself,  and  spoke  in  a  calm, 
though  stern  voice  : 

"  Signorina,  I  will !"  said  the  Italian,  in  an  agitated 
tone,  stepping  back,  closing  the  door,  and  returning  to  her 
side. 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  me  ?     Quick !" 

"  Listen  !  Sit  down,"  he  said,  pointing  to  one  chair,  and 
dropping  himself  into  another. 

She  sank  into  the  indicated  seat — he  drew  his  chair  to 
her  side,  took  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  to  his  heart, 
and  said  : 

"  Signorina,  your  great  wrong  remains  yet  unavenged  ; 
the  traitor  goes  yet  unpunished  !" 

She  snatched  her  hand  from  his  clasp,  darting  a  look  ol 
indignation  at  him,  and  exclaimed  : 

"And  you  return,  alive  and  unhurt,  to  tell  me  so!" 


THE     D  E  E  F     HEART.  84.9 

"  Lady  I  listen — last  night  I  sent  him  a  challenge  !" 

"  Fool !"  muttered  Magdalene. 

"I  received  no  reply." 

"  Of  course  not  I"  she  said,  with  withering  scorn. 

"  This  morning  I  called  at  his  lodgings." 

"Idiot!" 

The  Italian  scowled. 

"  Well !  what  then  ?" 

"He  had  left  them — no  one  knew  for  what  destination." 

"  Certainly  1     Assuredly  I" 

"  I  need  scarcely  tell  you,  madame,  scornful  and  incredu- 
lous as  you  affect  to  be,  that  I  did  not  rest  until  I  obtained 
what  I  supposed  to  be  a  clue  to  his  whereabout,  and  fol- 
lowed it  for  fifty  miles,  when  I  discovered  the  imposture 
of  which  I  had  been  the  dupe — or  perhaps  the  mistake  of 
which  I  had  been  the  victim  ;  and  I  lost  no  time  in  hurry- 
ing back  to  you." 

"  COWARD  !"  exclaimed  Magdalene,  in  the  most  taunting 
and  exasperating  tone,  as  her  fine  face  darkened  and 
flashed. 

The  Italian  started,  frowned  darkly,  impulsively  dived 
his  hand  into  his  bosom,  in  the  shades  of  which  the  handle 
of  a  poniard  glittered,  but  withdrew  it  quickly  again, 
smoothed  his  face,  and  composed  his  manner,  as  he  said 
calmly  : 

"  Lady,  you  use  your  sex's  privilege — had  a  man  uttered 
that  word — " 

"  You  would  mercifully  and  prudently  have  allowed  him 
ample  time  and  space  in  which  to  make  his  escape  from 
your  consuming  vengeance  !  Now  listen,  Signor  !" 

"Madame,  the  coach  waits  1"  cried  a  waiter,  rapping  at 
the  door. 

"  Yes !  I  am  coming.  Listen,  Signor  Bastiennelli  ! — I 
am  not  ove  to  be  trifled  with  !  No  amount  of  resolution. 


850  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

of  determination,  of  energy,  of  effort  that  is  not  SUCCESSFUL, 
will  win  one  favoring  smile  or  glance  from  me  !  The  CON- 
SUMMATION OF  JUSTICE  is  what  I  will  have  1" 

"The  stage,  madame !"  vociferated  a  voice  from  the  foot 
of  the  stairs. 

"  I  come  !     Farewell,  Bastiennelli  !" 

"I  attend  you,  lady,"  said  the  Italian,  and  he  accompa- 
nied her  down-stairs,  placed  her  in  the  coach,  closed  the 
door,  watched  the  vehicle  until  it  had  rolled  out  of  sight, 
and  returned,  to  prepare  to  follow  her  the  next  day,  say- 
ing: 

"  Aye,  my  queen,  play  the  despot !  but  I  have  that  which 
the  recklessness  of  your  own  nature  has  given  me  !  Your 
secret — your  avowed  criminal  purpose — and  by  it,  the  mas- 
tery of  your  fate  !  By  my  passion  you  would  have  made 
me  your  slave — your  tool  1  By  your  own  passion,  I  be- 
come your  master,  and  the  disposer  of  your  fate  !  Instead 
of  riveting  fetters  upon  my  wrists,  you  hare  placed  a  wea- 
pon in  my  hand — instead  of  chaining  me  a  slave  to  your 
triumphal  car,  you  have  armed  and  invested  me  with  power 
over  your  life  !  Look  to  it  I" 

While  this  dark  conspiracy  against  his  life  had  been  pro- 
ceeding, Lord  C'liffe,  unconscious  of  any  danger  he  might 
be  leaving  behind,  left  the  theatre  at  the  close  of  the  per- 
formance, and  returned  to  his  hotel,  rouse-d  up  his  servant 
from  his  first  sleep,  gave  directions  por  his  horses  to  be  sad- 
dled, mounted  one,  and,  attended  by  his  servant  on  the 
other,  left  the  hotel  and  the  city,  with  the  intention  of 
thro\vit.g  two  days'  journey  into  one,  and  of  ivaching  Pros- 
pect Hull,  according  to  appointment,  that  evening. 

And  thither — as  we  tire  now  weary  of  the  heart-sruivh 
phases   of  Magdalene's  terrible  life — thither,  as   it   is   lin'.v 
Spring,  and  the   country  will  be  pleasant,  and  the  society 


V  I  K  G  1  M  A     AND     II  E  L  K  N .  351 

of  Virginia  and  even  of  Bruin  and  Gulliver  will  be  refresh- 
ing— thither  we  will  precede  him  to  more  peaceful  scenes 
and  better  company. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

VIRGINIA     AND     HELEN. 


'Ton  must  endnre,  yet  loving  all  the  while, 

Above,  vet  never  separate  from  your  kind, 
Meet  every  frailty  with  the  gentlest  smile, 

Though  to  no  possible  depth  of  evil  blind 
This  is  the  riddle  you  have  left  to  8olve ; 

Bat  in  the  task  you  shall  not  work  alone, 
For,  while  the  worlds  about  the  sun  revolve, 

God's  heart  and  mine  are  ever  with  his  own." — HUnts. 


AFTER  spending  the  winter  in  Richmond,  early  in  the 
Spring  Judge  Washington  and  his  granddaughter,  Vir- 
ginia, had  returned  to  Prospect  Plains.  But  before  g-Mng 
further,  let  me  briefly  sura  up  the  few  events  of  the  last 
three  years  of  Virginia's  life — the  three  years  that  we  have 
passed  in  Magdalene's  company.  From  the  shock  of  her 
sudden  separation  from  Joseph  Carey,  Virginia  suffered  a 
long  and  severe  illness,  leaving  her,  at  the  close  of  its  acute 
stage,  so  enfeebled  in  body  and  mind,  as  to  make  change  of 
air  and  scene,  and  retirement,  absolutely  necessary. 

Therefore  it  was  that  in  the  month  of  May  following, 
Judge  Washington  took  her  to  the  Sunny  Isle,  to  which 
place  he  also  invited  Helen  and  Theodore  Hervey  to  bear 
her  company  ;  and  here  he  gave  his  whole  time  and  atten- 
tion to  the  recovery  of  his  beloved  child;  and  here,  too, 
he  kept  up  a  "lontinual  correspondence,  as  far  a?  circnm 


852  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

stances  would  admit  of  it,  with  Sir  Clinton  Carey  in 
Europe,  and  with  Joseph  Carey  in  India. 

At  the  close  of  the  summer,  Virginia,  "  resigned,  not 
happy,"  was  taken  by  her  grandfather  to  Prospect  Plains 
to  spend  the  autumn,  and  to  receive  from  the  hands  of  the 
Bishop  the  rites  of  Christian  confirmation ;  for  Judge 
Washington,  with  all  his  lively  charity  for  other  sects,  was 
a  somewhat  rigid  observer  of  the  forms  and  ceremonies  of 
his  church. 

Here,  however,  a  great  trial  awaited  them — here,  as 
Magdalene  had  surmised,  they  had  written  to  her  several 
times,  and  receiving  no  answer,  they  had  written  to  Major 
Lincoln,  and  from  him  received  the  startling  news  that  she 
had  left  them  two  months  before.  This  news  overwhelmed 
Judge  Washington  and  Virginia  vith  grief  and  anxiety. 
Greatly  did  Judge  Washington  reproach  himself  for  having 
permitted  her  to  leave  his  protection  ;  bitterly  did  Virginia 
lament  fancied  coldness,  fancied  neglect  and  forgetfulness 
on  ber  own  part,  which  might,  she  supposed,  have  alienated 
her  sister.  This  was  the  first  effect  of  their  first  shock  and 
dismay.  Afterward  Judge  Washington  said,  as  he  caressed 
the  weeping  Virginia  : 

"  Our  only  fault  toward  Magdalene  has  been  the  having 
lost  sight  of  her  these  several  months  past.  We  must  not 
spend  the  time  in  idle  regret,  but  must  do  all  that  we  can 
to  find  her." 

And  accordingly  every  possible  means  was  used  to  that 
effect,  but,  as  the  reader  already  knows,  without  success. 
Preparation  for  the  approaching  solemn  ceremony  of  con- 
firmation, by  which  she  should  renew  in  her  own  person  the 
Christian  vows  made  for  her  by  her  sponsors  in  baptism, 
now  claimed  Virginia's  whole  attention,  and  by  engaging 
her  thoughts  in  a  more  exalted  subject  of  meditation,  with- 
drew them  from  painfully  dwelling  upon  her  sorrows. 


VIRGINIA      AND      HELEN.  353 

They  spent  that  year  at  Prospect  Plains. 

The  next  winter,  being  the  third  from  the  separation  and 
dispersion  of  their  family  circle,  the  Judge  and  nis  grand- 
child prepared  to  go  and  spend  the  winter  in  Richmond, 
where  Sir  Clinton  Carey,  now  Lord  Cliffe,  was  expected  to 
oiu  them. 

They  reached  Richmond  early  in  December,  and  soon 
after  their  settlement  in  their  city  home,  they  were  joined 
by  Lord  Cliffe,  who  had  just  come  over  from  England. 

Whether  it  were  that  "  practice  makes  perfect,"  and  that 
Clinton  Lord  Cliffe  was  now  an  adept 

"In  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  welding,  bending 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one — " 

or  whether  it  were  simply  that  time,  study,  and  close  asso- 
ciation, acquainted  him  perfectly  with  Virginia's  individual 
heart  and  mind,  thus  teaching  him  how  to  adapt  himself  to 
her  taste,  and  recommend  himself  to  her  favor,  I  know  not ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  with  his  fine  tact  and  fascinating 
blandishments,  with  the  splendor  of  his  talents,  the  bril- 
liancy of  his  conversation,  and  the  grace  and  charm  of 
his  manner,  he  succeeded,  not  only  in  blinding  her  naturally 
refined  instinctive  insight,  and  overcoming  her  preconceived 
ideas  of  his  character,  but  even,  and  this  was  a  highly  im- 
portant step,  an  immense  stride  toward  success,  awakened  a 
tender  remorse  in  her  bosom,  for  having  been  so  harsh  and 
unjust  in  her  former  estimate  of  the  character  of  one  so 
noble  and  so  gentle. 

And  so  passed  the  winter,  every  day  adding  to  the  power 
of  Lord  Cliffe  over  the  heart  of  our  Ginnie. 

And  in  this  stage  of  affairs,  when  they  were  about  to 
return  to  Prospect  Plains  for  the  spring  and  summer,  Lord 
Cliffe  urged  Judge  Washington  for  permission  to  speak  to 
Virginia  upon  the  subject  nearest  to  his  heart. 


354  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

But  still  Judge  Washington  entreated  him  to  forbear  yet 
a  little  while ;  not  to  lose  the  ground  he  had  gained  in 
Virginia's  affections,  by  shocking  her  with  a  precipitate 
avowal  of  his  wish  to  make  her  his  wife. 

And  so,  about  the  middle  of  March  they  separated,  the 
Judge  and  Virginia  leaving  Richmond  for  Prospect  Hall, 
and  Lord  Cliffe  going  to  Washington  city  on  business 
that  would  occupy  him  for  a  week  or  two,  but  promising  at 
least  by  the  first  of  April  to  be  with  them. 

It  was  now  the  first  of  April,  and  near  the  close  of  a 
soft,  bright  spring  day,  that  Virginia  Washington  and  Helen 
Hervey  sat  together  in  the  upper  front  piazza  of  Prospect 
Hall,  alternately  working,  or  noting  the  beauty  of  the  scenery, 
and  conversing  in  a  low  and  confidential  tone.  At  a  short 
distance  from  them  stood  in  attendance  the  negro  waiting- 
maid  of  Miss  Washington. 

Virginia  was  engaged  in  embroidering  a  fine  mull  collar, 
Helen  in  knitting  a  lambswool  stocking,  and  the  colored 
girl  in  leaning  over  the  parapet,  watching  the  turkeys  as 
they  flew  up  to  their  roosts  in  the  trees  near  the  house. 

It  was  a  clear,  bright,  beautiful  evening,  and  unusually 
warm  for  the  early  season.  The  sun  was  setting  behind 
the  house,  and  casting  the  piazza  and  its  occupants  into 
ihe  deep  shadow  that  extended,  long  and  black,  across  the 
terrace  and  the  lawn,  and  toward  the  Plains,  enlivening, 
by  the  contrast  of  its  darkness,  the  brilliant  light  of  the 
emerald  green  fields  that  stretched  flashing  out  to  the  dis- 
tant dark  waters  of  the  Chesapeake  bounding  the  horizon. 

Observe  the  young  women  as  they  gaze  softly  in  rever- 
ential silence  npon  the  still,  bright,  beautiful  scene. 

Helen  Hervey  is,  in  almost  every  respect,  the  same  wo- 
man that  we  saw  her  last — pale,  dark,  hollow-featured,  pic- 
ruresque,  spiritual. 


VIRGINIA     AND     HELEN.  355 

Over  Virginia's  form  and  features,  air,  manner  and  tone, 
there  has  passed  a  great  change.  Her  eyes  have  lost  some- 
what of  their  flashing  splendor  ;  her  complexion  its  dazzling 
radiance  ;  her  voice  its  joyous  lightness  ;  her  manner  its 
jubilant  vivacity  ;  and  this  seemed  the  effect,  not  so  much 
of  cherished  sorrow  or  of  ill-health,  as  of  deeper  emotions 
and  more  earnest  thoughts.  Virginia  had  remained  a  few 
minutes  with  her  hands  and  her  work  resting  on  her  lap 
idle,  and  gazing  thoughtfully  upon  the  evening  landscape, 
until  the  sharp  outlines  of  light  and  shade  softened  and 
blended  in  the  sinking  of  the  sun  beneath  the  horizon. 
Then,  resuming  her  needle  and  her  conversation  at  the 
same  moment,  she  said  : 

"And  so  you  really  refuse  Broke  Shields,  and  suffer  him 
to  go  ?  How  strange,  dearest  Helen  !  How  perfectly  un- 
accountable !" 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Why,  yes.  Just  see.  You  were  playmates  in  infancy, 
fellow-students  in  childhood,  lovers  in  youth,  deeply  and 
strongly  attached  friends  in  maturity.  Your  exclusive 
mutual  affection,  your  constancy  and  fidelity  have  been  pro- 
verbial, and  your  marriage  has  been  expected  for  years 
past  by  your  friends  on  both  sides,  who  are  quite  agreed 
upon  the  subject ;  and  yet  you  refuse  him,  and  suffer  him  to 
leave  you,  thus  wounding  his  heart  and  your  own  ;  for  you 
love  him  still,  Helen  !  By  those  fast-falling  tears  you  do. 
Why  do  you  weep,  yet  permit  him  who  loves  yon  so  well — 
who  deserves  your  love  so  well — to  depart  ?  Tell  me,  dear 
Helen." 

"  I  will,  I  will  tell  you.  Look  at  my  pale  and  hollow 
cheeks  and  hollow  eyes.  Consider  my  languor,  and  that 
depression  of  spirits  which  even  family  and  social  affections 
and  Christian  faith  and  hope  conjoined  cauuot  always  re- 
lieve." 


35ci  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"Well,  clearest  Helen,  I  should  think  the  faithful  love  of 
one  so  noble-hearted  as  Broke  Shields  would  cure  all  that." 

"Ah,  this  languor,  this  depression  may  indicate  the  ex- 
istence of  some  obscure  and  wasting  malady.  If  this  be 
BO,  or  while  there  is  a  doubt  about  it,  I  ought  not  to  marry. 
And  if  no  point  of  duty  were  involved,  still  I  have  too 
honest  a  friendship  for  dear  Broke  to  afflict  all  the  best 
years  of  his  young  manhood  with  the  burden  and  the  sor- 
row of  my  fading  and  failing  life." 

"  Ah,  but  he  loves  you  so  !  he  loves  you  so  that  he  would 
rather  be  with  you,  and,  if  needful,  devote  his  health,  and 
strength,  and  life  to  sustaining  and  consoling  you  in  your 
feebleness  and  languor  for  years,  than  to  suffer  the  banish- 
ment and  the  absence  that  he  now  does ;  put  it  to  your  own 
heart.  If  Broke  were  ill  and  you  were  healthy,  would  you 
not  rather  be  with  him  in  his  sickness  and  sorrow  than  any- 
where else  ?" 

"It  is  not  what  one  would  rather  do,  but  what  they 
would  be  right  in  doing,  which  must  be  considered.  I  will 
never  be  married  while  my  health  is  so  precarious." 

"Dear  Helen,"  said  Virginia,  looking  at  her  with  eyes 
full  of  deep  affection,  "do  not  speak  so  sadly.  You  speak 
too  seriously  of  this.  Why,  you  are  stronger  than  1  am, 
yet  I  confidently  hope  and  expect  to  recover  full  health  and 
strength.  This  autumn  father  talks  of  taking  me  to  the 
south  of  France.  You  shall  go  with  us,  if  you  will  con- 
sent, and  your  parents  can  be  persuaded  to  part  with  you. 
My  father  has  set  his  heart  upon  having  your  company  out. 
Now,  if  the  sea-voyage  and  the  change  of  climate  does  me 
any  sort  of  good,  as  the  physician  avows  that  it  will,  why 
the  same  means  must  quite  restore  you." 

"  I  thank  you  and  your  grandfather,  dearest  Ginnie.  I 
am  not  startled  at  your  kind  offer,  you  perceive.  No  de- 
gree of  kindness  from  you  or  your  grandfather  surprises  uie 


VIRGINIA     AND     HKLKN.  S57 

in  the  least.  I  am  your  great  debtor,  and  must  always  con- 
tinue so  to  be ;  but  I  think  the  sea-voyage  and  the  change 
of  climate  will  not  avail  me.  That  it  promises  to  restore 
you,  Ginnie,  is  the  greatest  evidence  that  it  will  fail  to  re- 
store me.  We  are  of  opposite  constitutions  and  tempera- 
ments, Ginuie,  as  opposite  as  our  complexions  are.  Besides, 
your  indisposition  is  comparatively  recent  and  temporary, 
/have  been  from  childhood  what  I  am  now.  Dear  Ginnie, 
I  have  given  you,  and  you  alone,  the  secret  motive  of  my 
rejection  of  Broke.  Keep  ray  confidence,  and  now  let  us 
talk  of  something  else.  Magdalene — have  you  ever  heard 
from  her  ?" 

"  Ah,  no.  Every  means  taken  for  the  discovery  of  her 
abode  or  fate  has  failed.  She  is  dead  or  lost  to  us  forever, 
the  restless,  adventurous  spirit.  If  we  had  found  any  clew 
to  her  fate,  we  would  have  followed  it  up  until  it  should 
have  led  us  to  her ;  and  if  we  could  not  bring  her  back,  we 
would  at  least  have  shielded  her  from  as  much  evil,  and  sur- 
rounded her  with  as  much  good  as  should  be  in  our  power. 
Oh,  how  I  wish  we  knew  where  to  find  her !"  said  Virginia, 
pausing  in  sad  thought,  while  her  work  dropped  again  upon 
her  lap,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy.  After  a  little  time, 
resuming  her  work,  she  said,  "  By  the  way,  talking  of  dear 
Magdalene,  how  is  Theodore,  Helen  ?  Poor  Theodore, 
how  severely  he  felt  her  loss  1  Where  is  he  now,  Helen  ?" 

"Yes! — where?1'  repealed  Helen,  sadly  and  gravely, 
"  where  ?  Gone  in  search  of  Magdalene, .'" 

"  Gone  in  search  of  Ma-rdalene  !  He  is  mad  1  Where 
does  he  expect  to  find  her  ?  In  what  manner  does  he  pur- 
sue his  search  ?" 

"  If  he  is  mad,  as  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  sny  myself, 
there  is  provoking  'method  in  his  madness.'  In  short,  he 
got  himself  appointed  traveling  agent,  for  the  Foreign  Mis- 
sionary Society,  and  goes  from  city  to  city,  and  from  State 


358  THE     TWO     SiSTKRS. 

to  S'ate  preaching,  collecting,  mid — as  fnr  ns  he  onn  rlo  «•(> 
without,   notoriety — looking   for   Magdalene  !       T"  ;:ii 
persuasions — to  all  our  parents'  arguments,  he  replio — U»:ti 
Jet   her  condition  be  what  it  may,  if  his  love  and   lift-   r.m 
redeem  and  restore  her,  she  shall  be  redeemed  and  restored 

"May  Heaven  be  with  him  to  direct  and  to  guard  him  ! 
But  there  is  another  whom  Magdalene's  flight  has  nearly 
maddened.  Poor  old  Adam  Hawk  1  I  have  not  seen  him 
since  our  return — but  I  am  told  by  Bruin  that  a  few  days 
previous,  staff  in  hand,  and  with  his  Nazaritish  hair  and 
beard  still  unshorn,  according  to  his  vow,  he  left  his  home 
for — no  one  knows  where  !  Nor  can  his  object  be  con- 
jectured, except  by  a  few  words  uttered  at  parting  with 
Bruin,  when  he  said  something  wild  about  dogging  the 
footsteps  of  a  murderer — giving  him  rope  enough  to  hang 
himself  with,  and  then  delivering  him  up  to  justice  1" 

"Hush.!"  said  Virginia,  turning  pale  and  shuddering. 
"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  she  said,  in  her  turn. 

"  Dear  Ginnie,  we  must  talk  of  nothing  else  here  longer ; 
it  is  growing  dark,  and  is,  besides,  quite  chilly  this  evening 
— these  early  Spring  days  are  so  deceptive.  Come,  let  us 
go  iu.  You  are  too  delicate  to  brave  these  evening  chills. 
I  was  wrong  to  permit  you  to  do  so.  Come  !"  said  Helen, 
arising  and  rolling  up  her  knitting. 

"  I  was  wrong  to  do  so,  dear  Helen,  both  upon  your 
account  and  my  own.  Besides,  father  will  soon  be  home 
from  Heathville  now,  and  we  must  have  a  fire  in  the  sitting- 
room  and  tea  ready  for  him.  Dear  father  !  how  my  heart 
fills  with  love  and  reverence  at  the  very  thought  of  him, 
Helen  1  What  a  guard  and  guide  and  support  he  has  been 
to  me,  Helen  I  Had  I  never  known  my  Creator  and 
Heavenly  Father,  methinks  the  love  and  reverence  inspired 
by  my  earthly  one  must  still  have  made  me  wish  to  be  good. 
Yet  that  may  seem  impious !  Heaven  forgive  me  if  it  be 


THE     SITTING-ROOM.  859 

so,  for  I  do  not  mean  it.  Yet  I  can  never  express  half  the 
deep  and  fervent  affection  and  veneration  I  feel  for  my 
father !  Come,  Helen  I"  and  the  girls  went  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE     SITTING-ROOM 

"  I  se«  a  small,  old-fashioned  room, 

With  paneled  wainscot  high; 
Old  portraits  round  in  order  set, 
Carved  heavy  tables,  chairs,  buffette 

Of  dark  mahogany  ; 
And  there  a  high-backed,  hard  settee, 

On  six  brown  legs  and  paws, 
Flowered  o'er  with  silk  embroidery; 
And  there,  all  rough  with  flllagree, 

Tall  screens  ou  gilded  claws."— Mrs.  Sonttey. 

THIS  was  the  snuggery,  in  constant  family  use  when 
there  were  no  strangers  at  the  hall ;  and  here  the  busy 
hands  of  the  two  affectionate  girls  assisted  in  preparing 
for  the  evening  meal  and  the  evening  Greside  ;  and  soon  a 
clear  fire  was  glowing  in  the  chimney,  and  the  shutters 
were  closed,  and  "father's"  dressing-gown  laid  over  tho 
back  of  his  chimney-corner  easy-chair,  and  his  slippers 
laid  on  the  hearth,  and  the  tea-table  in  readiness,  and  the 
girls  sitting  down  upon  the  settee  upon  the  opposite  side 
of  the  chimney,  with  their  arms  locked  lovingly  around 
each  other's  waist,  talking  in  a  gentle  tone  of  their  mutual 
subjects  of  interest,  and  waiting  "father's"  coming  home. 

This  room  was  home  of  home — a  place  of  such  sweet 
security  and  tempting  repose,  that  the  very  oat  lif-rself — the 


860  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

large,  motherly,  tortoise-shell  cat — with  all  her  maternal 
love  and  feline  caution,  could  here  marshal  in  her  frolic- 
some and  variegated  brood  of  kittens,  and  nurse  them  on 
the  sofa,  or  the  foot  cushion,  or  permit  them  to  race 
around  the  room,  very  sure  that  they  would  not  be 
molested,  even  by  the  great  St.  Bernard  dog  stretched  at 
length  upon  the  rug. 

"Where  did  the  Judge  go  this  afternoon,  Ginnie'" 
inquired  Helen,  lifting  one  of  Madame  Grimalkin's  pret- 
tiest babes  to  her  lap,  and  caressing  it. 

"  Father  went  to  the  post-office,  and  he  felt  so  anxious 
about  some  letters,  that  he  decided  not  to  wait  until  a  mes- 
senger could  go  and  return,  but  to  save  several  hours  of 
suspense,  by  being  there  in  readiness  to  receive  his  own 
letters  as  soon  as  the  mail  should  arrive  and  be  opened." 

"I  read  in  '  The  Federalist'  that  a  foreign  mail  was  ex- 
pected to-day — does  he  expect  to  hear  from  Joseph 
Carey  ?" 

"  Alas,  no  !  we  have  not  heard  from  Joseph  for  nearly  a 
year — I  do  not  know — "  and  Ginnie  stopped  short,  for  she 
choked  with  emotion,  and  lost  her  voice. 

"  Is  that  possible !  I  am  very  sorry  for  that,"  said 
Helen,  in  a  tone  of  deepest  sympathy ;  "  but  then,  Virginia, 
the  foreign  mails  are  so  uncertain,  and  the  Geld  of  Joseph's 
labors  so  far  out  of  the  bounds  of  civilization,  that  there  is 
much  more  ground  to  hope  that  his  letters  have  miscarried, 
than  there  is  for  fear  of  his  health  or  life  I" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Ginnie,  with  an  effort  at  self- 
recovery.  "  I  do  not  know ;  all  that  we  have  heard  of  Jo- 
seph proves  the  most  enthusiastic  devotion  of  every  faculty 
of  his  soul  and  body  to  his  work — his  most  arduous  work  ! 
The  very  last  we  heard  of  him  was  through  an  English 
foreign  missionary  magazine  that  providentially  fell  into  our 
hands,  where  his  name  was  quite  incidentally  introduced,  and 


THE     SITTING-BOOM.  361 

by  which  we  learned  that  he  was  in  a  very  distant  part  of 
Further  India,  quite  alone  and  unsustained,  amid  a  horde  of 
hostile  heathen.  Yet  not  alone  !  '  God's  heart  and  mind 
are  ever  with  his  own.'  " 

At  this  moment  a  heavy  step  was  heard  in  the  hall,  the 
door  was  swung  open,  and  Judge  Washington  entered  the 
sitting-room  ;  Virginia  and  Helen  both  arose  to  meet  him. 
He  shook  hands  with  Helen,  stooped  and  kissed  Virginia's 
brow,  and  then  the  two,  with  solicitous  attention,  hastened 
to  make  him  comfortable. 

Helen  went  for  the  boot-jack,  while  Ginnie  helped  him 
off  with  his  great  coat,  and  settled  him  in  his  dressing-gown 
in  the  easy-chair. 

And  then  Ginnie  carried  off  the  great  coat,  hat  and  stick 
to  hang  them  in  the  hall,  while  Helen,  now  returned,  rang 
for  tea. 

Though  the  house  was  full  of  servants,  the  girls  were 
always  happy  in  proving  their  affectionate  respect  by  per- 
forming, with  their  own  hands,  these  little  personal  favors. 

Tea  was  soon  served,  and  the  Judge,  somewhat  rested 
and  refreshed  already,  arose,  and  with  his  usual  amenity  of 
manner,  handed  Virginia  to  her  place  at  the  table,  and  they 
all  sat  down. 

After  tea  was  over,  and  the  cloth  was  removed,  when 
they  had  gathered  around  the  fire  again,  and  the  little 
round  table,  with  the  bright  lamp,  was  drawn  up  between 
them,  and  Virginia  had  taken  out  her  embroidery,  and 
Helen  her  knitting,  Ginnie  "opened  'her'  mouth  and  spake, 
saying," 

"  Dear  grandfather,  you  look  happy  this  evening  !  The 
mail  has  not  disappointed  yon !  You  have  letters  and  good 
news !" 

"  Yes,  Virginia,  much  news,  strange  news  and  good  1" 
.    "  Of  Magdalene  ?" 


|$ft        /  tHE     T  W  6     SISTERS. 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  of  her.  Go,  look  into  the  pocket  of 
my  great  coat,  Virginia,  and  bring  the  packet  of  letters  and 
papers  that  you  will  find  there." 

Virginia  hastened  to  obey,  and  returned  with  a  large 
bundle  of  papers.  The  Judge  received  them,  spread  them 
out  before  him  on  the  table,  and  while  Helen  and  Virginia 
watched  him  anxiously,  he  selected  one  from  the  number, 
saying, 

"  Now,  my  dears,  I  chose  to  say  nothing  of  this  letter 
until  after  tea,  for  I  knew  with  this  letter  to  digest  there 
would  be  no  appetite  for  supper !" 

"  Though  with  the  supper  to  digest  we  are  starving  for 
the  contents  of  the  letter  1"  said  Ginnie,  with  something  of 
her  old  vivacity,  for  with  eyes  as  bright  as  stars  she  had 
already  recognized  the  dear,  familiar  hand-writing. 

"  I  see  that  you  have  discovered  this  letter  to  be  from 
Joseph.  It  is.  I  will  read  it ;"  and  unfolding  the  epistle, 
Judge  Washington  read  it  to  eager  hearers. 

The  letter  proved  that  the  surmise  of  Helen  Hervey  had 
been  correct.  Joseph  had  written  regularly  every  month, 
though  being  in  a  distant  part  of  India,  he  had  frequently 
been  compelled  to  entrust  his  letters  for  transportation  to 
the  nearest  missionary  station  to  unknown  and  perhaps  un- 
faithful messengers.  He  more  than  half  suspected,  he  said, 
that  all  his  letters  sent  from  that  quarter  had  failed  to  reach 
their  destination.  He  had,  through  almost  unparalleled 
toils,  privations,  and  hardships,  and  over  nearly  invincible 
obstacles,  alone  and  unaided — succeeded  in  planting  in 
that  social  desert,  a  vineyard  of  the  Lord,  a  little  Christian 
Church,  which  owned  him^for  its  pastor,  a  little  school 
which  had  him  for  its  teacher.  Every  faculty  of  his  soul 
and  body  was  busily  and  happily  engaged.  His  health  was 
not  quite  so  strong  as  it  had  been,  but  that  was  doubtless 
owing  to  the  change  of  climate.  He  would  get  acclimated. 


THE     SITTING-ROOM.  368 

and  then  he  should  be  better  This  letter  closed  with  fer- 
vent expressions  of  undying  love  to  those  dear  friends  he 
left  behind,  and  unshaken  faith  in  the  God  who  would  watch 
over  and  finally  reunite  them.  Helen's  and  Virginia's  eyes 
were  full  of  grateful  tears. 

Virginia's  hands  were  clasped  as  if  in  prayer  or  praise, 
and  her  whole  countenance  and  manner  glowing  with  so 
much  fervor  and  earnestness  of  emotion,  that  the  Judge  re- 
marked it,  and  she  answered  truly, 

"  Oh  father !  my  heart  glows  and  dilates  with  I  know 
not  how  much  mingled  admiration,  joy,  and  regret.  Oh 
father !"  and  Ginnie  pressed  both  hands  tightly  upon  her 
bosom  as  though  to  still  its  throbbing — she  could  say  no 
more.  To  Helen  alone,  or  to  her  father  alone,  she  could 
have  spoken  freely,  but  a  new  aud  nameless  scruple — a 
vague  feeling  that  she  did  not  understand,  prevented  her  from 
speaking  to  them  loyel/ier,  the  thoughts  that  were  burning 
in  her  heart — made  it  impossible  for  her  to  say  that  which 
so  strongly,  so  ardently  she  felt :  "  He  is  there  alone,  alone. 
Oli  1  why,  when  I  wish  to  go  so  much,  when  I  could  be 
such  an  aid  and  comfort  to  him,  when  I  love  him  so,  and 
he  needs  me  so  ! — why  may  I  not  go  to  him  ?  Oh  !  to  be 
there  where  I  am  so  much  wanted  !  To  be  there  in  Jo- 
seph's lonely  home  !  To  be  there  alone  with  him  !  With 
nothing  to  care  for  but  him  !  With  nothing  to  do  but  to 
help  him  !  To  enter  heart  and  soul  into  all  his  labors  and 
desires  and  enterprises!  To  labor  with  Joseph  and  for 
humanity  and  God  !  With  mutual  affection  on  earth  and 
heaven  in  view  !  What  a  happiness !  what  a  happiness ! 
Oli !  that  it  might  be  mine  !  To  be  able  to  conceive  of 
this,  and  not  to  be  able  to  realize  it !  Joseph  !  Joseph  ! 
sea  and  land!  waves  and  mountains!  separate  us  not  so  far 
as  fate !  Joseph !  my  dear  brother  Joseph  !"  This  was 
the  inarticulate  cry  in  her  heart  tuut  choked 


364  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

that  suffused  her  face  with  blushes  and  her  eyes  with  tears, 
as  the  gaze  of  her  grandfather  fell  upon  her. 

But  soon  the  sight  of  her  grandfather's  venerable  and  sad- 
dened countenance,  and  his  silver  hair  and  bowed  form, 
roused  something  like  remorseful  tenderness  in  Ginnie.  She 
wiped  away  her  tears,  and  smiled,  and  kissed  his  hands,  and, 
starting  up,  ran  and  brought  his  pipe  and  tobacco,  filled, 
and  lighted,  and  handed  it  to  him,  and  sat  down  on  a 
cushion  by  his  side,  folded  her  hands  upon  his  knee,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face  with  eyes  full  of  veneration  and  love, 
watched  him. 

They  were  sitting  thus  when  the  quick  trampling  of 
horses,  followed  by  steps  upon  the  portico,  and  a  loud  ring- 
ing of  the  door-bell,  announced  a  visitor. 

"  Who  cau  it  be  at  this  late  hour  ?"  inquired  Ginnie  and 
Helen,  in  a  breath ;  but,  before  the  Judge  could  reply  with 
a  conjecture,  a  servant  entered  and  announced  that  Lord 
Cliffe  had  arrived,  and  had  been  shown  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  And — strange  that  he  should  have  come  so  late — is 
there  a  fire  in  the  room  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Show  him  in  here,  then  ;  if  you  have  no  objection  to 
receiving  him  in  our  family  sanctum,  young  ladies,"  said  the 
Judge,  addressing  the  first  clause  of  his  speech  to  the  man, 
and  the  last  to  the  girls.  :  .  • 

"  Certainly  not,  father.  Let  him  come  in  here  while  I 
go  and  order  supper,  for  I  dare  say  he  has  not  supped." 

"Do,  my  dear,  but  do  not  be  long,  Virginia.  Give  your 
directions,  and  leave  their  fulfillment  to  Polly — or  rather  to 
Coral — and  come  yourself  back  here  to  welcome  your  cousin 
Clinton." 

Virginia  left  the  room,  and  the  Judge,  turning  to  the 
man,  directed  him  to  show  m  Lord  Cliffe. 


THE     SITTING-ROOM.  365 

Judge  Washington  and  Miss  Hervey  arose  tc  receive 
Lord  Cliffe  as  he  entered  their  snuggery,  bowing  with  his 
customary  courtly  grace.  He  shook  hands  with  the  Judge, 
and  gallantly  raised  the  slender  fingers  of  Helen  to  his  lips, 
and  assumed  the  seat  on  the  sofa  by  her  side.  He  informed 
his  host  in  explanation  of  his  late  arrival,  that  business  had 
detained  him  at  the  seat  of  Government  a  day  longer  than 
he  had  expected — that  being  determined  to  keep  his  ap- 
pointment for  the  first  of  April,  he  had  set  out  from  Wash- 
ington city  at  three  o'clock  that  morning,  and  had  ridden 
all  day. 

The  Judge  was  in  the  midst  of  some  expressions  of  con- 
cern for  his  fatigue,  when  the  door  opened  and  Virginia 
entered. 

It  was  not  with  the  least  remnant  of  weariness  or  even  of 
his  habitual  and  dignified  nonchalance,  that  Lord  Cliffe 
sprang  up,  and,  with  very  unaristocratic  vivacity  hastened 
to  meet  Virginia,  and,  with  the  privilege  of  a  cousin  or  a 
fianck,  drew  her  trembling  to  his  bosom,  and  pressed  a  kiss 
upon  her  blushing  cheek ;  then  he  led  her  to  the  settee, 
seated  her,  placed  himself  at  her  side,  and,  for  a  while,  gave 
up  his  whole  attention  to  her.  He  declined  the  proffered 
refreshments,  saying  that  he  had  supped  at  St.  Leonard's, 
where  he  had  stopped  to  change  his  dress  and  to  rest  his 
horses.  He  yielded  a  ready  acquiescence,  however,  to  the 
advice  of  his  host,  that  he  should  retire  to  rest  early — in 
consideration  of  having  ridden  something  like  a  hundred 
miles ;  and  in  accordance  with  this  proposition,  the  family 
circle  separated. 

Lord  Cliffe,  in  bidding  good-night  to  the  Judge,  re- 
quested to  be  informed  at  what  hour  of  the  next  day  it  would 
be  convenient  to  favor  him  with  a  private  interview.  Judge 
Washington  expressed  his  readiness  to  receive  Lord  Clifle 
in  his  library  immediately  after  breakfast.  This  little  eon- 


366  THE     TWO     SISTEBS. 

versation  passed  in  a  low  voice  at  the  foot  of  the  great 
staircase,  where  the  host  and  his  guest  parted  for  the 
night. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 
THE    MAIDEN'S    HEART. 

•'  Her  bosom  is  the  soft  retreat 

For  love,  aud  love  alone ; 
And  yet  her  heart  has  never  beat 

To  love's  delicious  tone. 
It  dwells  within  its  circle  free 

From  tender  thoughts  like  these 
Waiting  the  little  deity 

As  blossoms  wait  the  breeze, 
Before  it  throws  its  leaves  apart, 
And  trembles  like  the  love-touched  heart.'  —Amelia  S.  Welly. 

AFTER  breakfast  the  next  morning,  while  Helen  was  in 
her  chamber,  and  the  little  housewife,  Virginia,  was  giving 
orders  for  dinner,  Lord  Cliffe  sought  Judge  Washington  in 
his  library. 

His  unexpected  meeting  with  Magdalene  in  the  United 
States, — her  threat  had  had  one  effect  upon  him — not  that 
of  alarming  him  for  his  personal  safety,  but  of  disturbing 
his  sense  of  security  in  Judge  Washington's  high  esteem 
and  in  Virginia's  pure  affections.  He  wished,  therefore,  to 
insure  his  position  by  a  speedy  marriage,  or  by  the  speedy 
removal  of  Virginia  far  from  the  neighborhood  of  Magda- 
lene. It  was  with  this  intention  that  he  entered  the  library 
of  Judge  Washington.  The  old  gentleman  sat  before  the 
fire  in  a  large,  red,  easy-chair  beside  a  table  covered  with 
green  cloth,  and  scattered  over  with  books,  papers,  writing 
materials,  etc.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  stood  »u 


THE    MAIDEN'S    HEART.  367 

empty  chair  similar  to  his  own.  He  arose  and  received 
Lord  Cliffe  with  much  urbanity,  pointing  to  the  vacant  seat, 
which  the  latter  took.  With  an  air  of  stately,  yet  graceful 
deprecation,  Lord  Cliffe  apologized  for  again,  so  soon, 
opening  the  subject  recently  closed  between  them  at  Rich- 
mond, and  entreated  permission  to  renew  and  press  his  suit, 
for  urgent  reasons,  which  he  begged  leave  to  explain. 

Judge  Washington  looked  sad  and  grave,  but  bowed  and 
requested  him  to  proceed. 

Lord  Cliffe  then  informed  him  that  business  of  vital  im- 
portance would  call  him  to  England  immediately,  and  de- 
tain him  there  for  many  months — that  the  thought  of  leav- 
ing his  promised  bride,  in  whom  his  whole  life  was  bound 
ap,  was  painful  beyond  sufferance  ;  that  her  affections  and 
confidence  already  half  won,  might  be  entirely  lost  again 
during  his  protracted  absence ;  and  finally,  both  as  a  favoi 
and  a  right,  he  entreated  Judge  Washington's  consent,  and 
claimed  his  promise  of  permission  to  speak  to  Virginia  of 
his  love,  and  to  ask  her  hand. 

The  old  gentleman  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and 
remained  in  silent  thought  for  the  space  of  a  few  minutes, 
while  Lord  Cliffe  uneasily  awaited  his  answer.  At  last  he 
said  in  a  serious  tone — "  I  am  old,  I  know  and  feel ;  and 
life  and  health  is  precarious  in  its  duration.  If  I  die,  leav- 
ing my  granddaughter  unmarried,  she  will  be  unprotected. 
I  have,  perhaps,  put  off  this  matter  long  enough.  Virginia 
is  nineteen  years  of  age.  Yet  if  I  have  delayed  the  con- 
summation of  your  betrothal,  Lord  Cliffe,  it  has  been,  as 
you  know,  from  no  disinclination  to  fulfill  my  promise  and 
Colonel  Carey's  wishes.  It  has  been  from  the  deepest  in- 
terest in  Virginia's  happiness,  and  in  yours  as  connected 
with  hers.  I  wished  you  to  secure  the  first  place  in  her 
affections  before  you  should  obtain  her  hand.''  There  was 
an  emphasis  in  the  latter  clause  of  this  speech,  that  caused 


368  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Lord  Cliffe  to  look  up  in  great  anxiety,  with  difficulty  re- 
strained ;  Judge  Washington  continued — "  Virginia  has  a 
warm  regard  for  you,  Clinton,  but  she  does  not  love  yon  as 
I  could  wish  her  to  love  her  husband — as  you,  if  you  wed 
for  happiness,  should  wish  your  wife  to  love  you." 

"You  more  than  intimate  that  I  am  not  so  blessed  as  to 
hold  the  highest  place  in  Miss  Washington's  regard — is 
another — besides  yourself — so  favored  ?" 

"  Yes — more  than  yon — more  than  myself,  more,  far 
more  than  any  one  else  on  earth,  Virginia  loves  her  adopted 
brother,  Joseph  Carey."  Lord  Cliffu  arose,  and  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  paced  up  and  down  the  floor.  Returning,  he 
resumed  his  seat,  and  looked  inquiringly  in  the  face  of  Judge 
Washington,  who,  in  reply  to  the  sad  and  silent  interroga- 
tive, said — "  Do  not  be  alarmed,  or  the  least  uneasy  at  this 
annunciation.  I  spoke  of  it  in  order  to  anticipate  and  pre- 
vent any  needless  misconstruction  and  anxiety.  Virginia 
esteems  and  loves  Joseph  Carey  beyond  and  above  all  others 
— but  it  is  the  esteem  of  a  pure  heart  for  a  noble  one — the 
devoted  love  of  an  only  sister  for  an  only  brother — for  such 
from  babyhood  has  been  their  relation.  She  loves  you  in 
the  same  manner,  but  in  a  less  degree.  That  greatest, 
strongest,  warmest  love — that  one  predominant  love,  has 
never  been  inspired  in  Virginia's  heart." 

Lord  Cliffe's  countenance  cleared  as  he  said — "  Be  of 
good  cheer,  sir,  far  from  cherishing  a  morose  uneasiness  at 
this  circumstance,  I  understand  it — and  recall  the  beautiful 
lines  of  our  greatest  poet, 

'  Oh  !  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame 
To  paythis  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  killed  the  flock  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her:' 

I  only  await  your  permission  to  address  Virginia." 


THE    MAIDEN'S    HEART.  369 


"  You  have  it,  then,  Clinton  ;    and  may  Heaven 
your  wooing  and  bless  your  love,  as  you  deserve." 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  your  wishes  on  my  side  ;  shall 
I  also  have  the  influence  of  your  word  with  Virginia." 

"  Assuredly,  Clinton,  so  far  as  the  expression  of  my 
earnest  desire  —  leaving  her  then  free  to  act  —  will  go,  you 
shall  have  the  weight  of  my  interest  with  my  child." 

So  ended  the  interview. 

Lord  Cliffe  bowed  and  withdrew  from  the  library,  and 
Judge  Washington,  pulling  the  bell-rope,  summoned  a  ser- 
vant whom  he  dispatched  with  a  message  to  Virginia. 
Ginnie  obeyed  the  call  instantly  by  coming  into  the  presence 
of  her  grandfather  just  as  she  was  —  just  as  she  happened 
to  be  dressed  —  when  the  messenger  met  her  half  way  be- 
tween the  "meat-house"  and  the  kitchen,  with  her  ging- 
ham sun-bonnet  and  sheepskin  mittens,  and  her  morning 
apron,  and  little  basket  of  keys. 

"Come  here,  my  child,"  said  her  grandfather  holding  out 
his  hand  ;  and  as  she  advanced,  he  drew  her  toward  him, 
looking  with  fond  and  grave  affection  upon  her  face,  as  he 
removed  her  bonnet,  took  her  little  basket  from  her,  set  it 
away,  placed  her  in  a  chair  by  his  side,  and  again  taking 
her  hand,  said,  very  seriously  :  "  Virginia,  how  do  you  like 
your  cousin,  Lord  Cliffe  ?" 

"  At  first,  father,  I  did  not  like  him,  but  of  late,  since 
I  have  known  him  so  much  better,  I  have  liked  him  more 
and  more  every  day." 

"That  is  well  —  very  well  May  your  regard  for  him 
continue  to  increase.  Virginia,  your  grandfather  is  an  old 
man.' 

"  My  dear  father." 

"  He  cannot  expect  to  live  many  years  —  he  may  not  live 
many  months,  Virginia." 

"  Dear  father." 


370  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  If  he  should  die,  you  would  be  left  quite  unprotected — 
exposed  to  nil  the  snares  and  dangers  that  beset  the  path 
of  a  young,  beautiful,  and  wealthy  orphan.  Do  not  weep 
Virginia,  but  hear  me.  That  thought,  Virginia — that 
thought  of  leaving  you  so  unsheltered  and  defenseless, 
saddens  ray  life,  it  would  darken  my  death."  He  paused 
mid  looked  at  her.  She  wiped  her  eyes  and  replied  : 

"  Do  not  let  it,  then,  dearest  father.  Your  child  is  young 
and  inexperienced,  but  she  is  not  silly,  or  vain,  or  cowardly. 
In  the  event  of  God,  in  his  infinite  wisdom,  visiting  me  with 
such  an  affliction  as  your  loss,  dearest  father,  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  will  do,  so  that  you  shall  not  have  one  fear  for 
me." 

"  Well,  Virginia  ?" 

"  If  the  Lord  would  strengthen  me  to  bear  the  trial,  the 
first  thing  I  should  do  would  be  to  write  to  Joseph  to  come 
over  to  me,  and  the  next  thing  would  be  to  go  to  Mr. 
Hervey's,  and  put  myself  under  the  protection  of  the  family 
until  he  should  arrive." 

"  And  then,  Virginia  ?"  inquired  the  Judge  in  evident 
anxiety. 

"And  then — why,  then — then — what  Joseph  pleased," 
she  said,  twisting  up  the  corner  of  her  apron,  while  her  brow 
crimsoned. 

Both  were  silent,  until  a  profound  sigh  from  Judge  Wash 
ington  caused  Virginia  to  look  up  and  say  : 

"  Dear  father,  you  are  sighing  ;  what  for  ?  Can  I  do  any 
thing  for  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Virginia." 

"  What  is  it,  dear  father  ?     Tell  me." 

"  Will  you  do  it,  Virginia  ?» 

"  Will  I?  Will  I  do  what  my  father  wishes?  Oh, 
father,  when  did  '  Ginnie'  ever  do  otherwise  ?" 

"Promise  me,  Virginia,  to  do  what  I  wish." 


THE    MAIDEN'S    HEART.  371 

"  T  promise,  denr  father — of  course  I  do — though  no 
>nt'iiist's  cm  liind  me  any  faster  than  duty  does  now." 

"  Virginia.  l>v  fnllowing  ray  advice  in  an  affair  of  which 
f  ;IMI  about  to  speak  to  you,  you  will  lighten  my  latter  days 
nf  their  great  burden  of  anxiety." 

"  Oh,  speak,  and  tell  me  what  it  is,  dear  father.  OJ 
course  I  will  do  it!  Can  any  one  doubt  it  ?" 

"Listen,  then,  Virginia.  I  wish  to  see  you  married  be- 
fore I  die,"  said  he,  looking  at  her  with  earnest  affection. 
To  his  surprise,  her  face  at  first  lighted  up  with  an  impul- 
sive joy;  but  then  a  sudden  bashfulness  flushed  her  brow, 
and  she  dropped  her  eyes  upon  the  carpet.  "  Can  you 
surmise  who  it  is  that  I  have  selected  as  your  husband, 
Virginia  ?"  Again  the  smile  and  the  blusii,  the  pleasure 
and  the  bashfulness,  conflicted  in  the  maiden's  bosom,  and 
on  her  downcast  countenance.  "  Speak,  Virginia.  Tell 
me  if  you  know  the  name  of  him  who  prefers  you  before  all 
women,  and  upon  whom,  before  all  men,  I  prefer  to  bestow 
the  hand  of  my  child?  Ah,  do  you  know  his  name,  Vir- 
ginia ?"  said  he,  and  he  stopped  to  catch  the  scarcely  audi- 
ble sound  made  by  the  smiling  lips,  and  he  heard  her  mur- 
mur in  a  love-tuned  voice — 

"Joseph  Carey." 

Judge  Washington  drew  back,  changed  countenance,  and 
sighed  more  heavily  than  before  as  he  said : 

"No,  my  dear.  No,  Virginia,  I  never  thought  of  him 
in  that  light — never  could  think  of  him  in  that  light.  He 
is  a  most  estimable  young  man,  but  he  is  your  brother. 
Let  him  ever  remain  so.  Sisters  do  not  marry  with  their 
brothers  I  No,  Virginia,  no  !  Decidedly  not  him  !  You 
must  not  dream  of  such  a  thing.  What  ever  could  have 
put  it  into  your  head  ?  Did  Joseph  ever  hint  such  a  propo- 
sition to  you  ?'' 

"No,  sir,  never,1'  said   Ginnie,  in  a  low,  trembling  tone, 


372  THK     TWO     SISTERS. 

with  her  crimson  brow  between  the  drooping  ringlets,  still 
bent,  "  never.  But  when  you  talked  with  such  approval  of 
one  whom  you  preferred  before  all  others,  I  thought,  of 
course,  dear  father,  that  you  meant  him  who  merited  such 
preference  above  all  others,  my  dear  brother  Joseph,  that 
was  all — forgive  me,"  and  Ginnie  twirled  her  apron  quite 
up  to  the  belt. 

"  Virginia,  darling,  you  do  not  inquire  whom  I  do  mean." 

"  Because,  dear  father,  I  do  not  much  care,  since  it  is  not 
Joseph.  Alas  !  pardon  me — I  know  not  what  I  am  saying. 
I  did  not  mean  to  answer  you  so,  father.  Tell  me,  then, 
sir,  whom—"  she  paused  and  trembled. 

"A  most  proper  match  for  you,  my  dear  child,  in  every 
respect.  Your  Cousin  Clinton — Lord  Cliffe  !" 

Virginia's  color  faded,  and  she  remained  silent. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  it,  my  dear  child  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  this — that  I  had  hoped  to  spend  all  my 
life  among  my  childhood's  friends,  and  in  my  childhood's 
home — to  live  and  die  with  you,  and  Magdalene,  and  Joseph, 
at,  Prospect  Plains." 

"  That  is  a  favor  few  young  people  have,  and  fewer  still 
desire  from  fate.  '  The  young  bird  must  leave  its  nest,' 
Virginia.  Come,  my  dear,  you  will  give  peace  to  your  old 
father  by  complying  with  his  wishes.  You  will  listen 
favorably  to  Lord  Cliffe's  suit  ?" 

"  I  gave  you  my  promise.  Yes,  father !"  and  Virginia 
burst  into  tears.  He  let  her  weep,  unchidden.  And  then 
he  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  kissed  her,  and  sent  her  away  to 
change  her  dress.  Virginia  met  Lord  Cliffe  at  dinner,  and 
the  conscious  blood  mounted  to  her  brow.  All  day  she 
avoided  him  as  much  as  she  could  without  unkindness.  And 
in  their  few  chance  meetings,  her  face  flushed  and  paled,  her 
limbs  trembled,  and  her  voice  faltered,  so  deadly  was  her 
fear  of  the  private  interview  she  had  promised.  And  how 


THE     MAIDEN   S     HEART.  373 

much  this  dread  resembled  the  bashfulness  of  virgin  love  I 
and  how  nearly  it  had  deceived  even  her  lover ! 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  shining  through 
the  crimson  curtains  of  the  wainscoted  parlor,  and  falling 
redly  on  the  sofa  underneath  the  window  where  they  sat, 
Lord  Cliffe  found  the  opportunity  of  declaring  his  love,  and 
pressing  his  suit  with  all  the  eloquence  of  passion  and  of 
genius,  that  she  should  bless  him  with  the  promise  of  her 
haud.  At  last  she  gave  him  this  promise — only  pleading 
that  no  more  should  be  said  of  it  until  their  return  from 
their  European  tour. 

And  finally  rising,  she  begged  the  privilege  of  retiring  to 
her  room  for  recomposure. 

Lord  Cliffe  arose,  and,  with  his  usual  suave  and  deferen- 
tial gallantry,  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  the  door,  open- 
ing, and  holding  it  open  until  she  had  passed. 

And  Virginia  went  to  her  chamber. 

She  had  obeyed  her  father.  She  thought  she  had  done 
her  duty.  Yet  her  heart  was  full  of  trouble — tender,  re- 
morseful memories  of  Joseph,  and  his  love,  and  his  loneli- 
ness— and  a  compunctious  sense  of  injustice  to  Lord  Cliffe, 
and  abuse  of  his  confiding  faith. 

Full  of  distress,  she  dropped  upon  her  knees  by  the  side 
of  her  bed,  buried  her  head  in  its  downy  softness,  wept,  and 
prayed  that  God  would  bless,  would  highly  bless  her  brother 
Joseph,  and  give  to  her  clear  sight  to  see  her  duty,  and 
strong  heart  to  do  it. 

She  arose  with  one  thing  clear  in  her  mind — that  in  a 
vital  matter  like  this  she  must  have  no  concealments  from 
Lord  Cliffe  No,  painful  as  it  would  be,  she  must  nnvai! 
her  heart  to  him.  He  was  in  the  wainscoted  parlor  yet — 
she  would  go  to  him  now,  while  she  had  a  little  strength 
and  courage. 

Without  stopping  to  arrange  her  disordered  dress,  or 
23 


374  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

smooth  her  disheveled  hair — without  thinking  of  them  at 
all,  she  quickly  glided  down  the  stairs,  and  softly  opened 
the  parlor  door.  She  paused  in  fear,  and  looked  in. 

He  was  there  yet,  sitting  upon  the  sofa,  under  the  crim- 
son light  of  the  window,  gazing  fixedly  upon  a  miniature 
he  held  in  his  hand,  and  his  attitude  was  full  of  strange 
distress.  Against  the  bright  light  she  could  not  see  his  face, 
but  she  thought  with  affectionate  compunction — "  He,  too, 
has  his  sorrows — what  sorrows  can  he  have  ?  Have  all  sor- 
rows, then  ?  And  can  I  add  to  the  sum  of  his,  the  cruelest 
one  of  a  false,  deceiving  bride  ?  No,  my  profound  soul ! 
Notwithstanding  all  rny  failing  and  faltering,  I  will  go  iu 
and  toll  him." 

And  all  this  while  he  was  gazing  on  the  miniature — his 
hand  passing  to  and  fro  in  a  troubled  gesture  across  his 
brow.  Virginia,  closing  the  door  behind  her,  approached 
him  trembling.  He  looked  up,  and  perceiving  her,  arose, 
and  tenderly  and  respectfully  taking  her  hand,  led  her  to 
the  si- fa,  seated  her,  and  took  his  place  at  her  side,  before 
he  deliberately  shut  the  locket  containing  the  miniature, 
and  returned  it  to  his  bosom.  Then  he  gave  his  whole  at- 
tention to  her.  She  was  blushing  deeply,  and  the  tears 
were  sparkling  on  her  eyelashes,  as  she  said,  in  a  low,  tremu- 
lous voice,  and  with  an  averted  face  : 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Lord  Cliffe,  which  it  is 
right  that  I  should  say  ;  but  it  is  very  painful  to  me  to  say  it." 

She  paused,  and  her  brow  flushed. 

"The  sun-light  is  too  bright  in  here — it  is  blinding," 
said  Lord  Cliffe,  and  he  arose,  turned,  closed  the  blinds,  let 
down  the  crimson  curtains,  reseated  himself  beside  Virginia, 
and  gently  passing  one  hand  around  her  waist,  and  laying 
her  face  against  his  bosom,  he  bent  over  her,  and  tenderly 
stroking  back  the  damp,  pale  hair  from  her  paler  brow,  he 
said,  in  a  soothing  voice : 


THE     MAIDEN'S     HEART.  375 

"  Say  on,  now,  Virginia.  There  is  nothing  in  that  in- 
nocent heart  of  thine  that  may  not  fearlessly  be  spoken. 
Say  on,  ray  love.  Murmur  in  ever  such  a  low  whisper,  and 
I  shall  catch  or  guess  your  meaning." 

And  with  her  face  hidden  on  his  bosom,  where  he  held 
her,  she  began  to  speak  in  a  tone  as  low,  as  mellifluous, 
and  nearly  as  inarticulate  as  the  shiver  of  distant  forest 
leaves : 

"  You  ought  to  know  before  you  marry  me,  that  I  love 
my  brother  Joseph  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  wide 
world — that — if  father  had  been  willing — and  Joseph  had 
been  willing — I  had  rather  passed  my  whole  life  with  him 
than  with  any  one  else  on  earth — that  I  had  rather  shared 
his  home,  however  humble,  or  his  fate,  however  hard — as 
his  wife,  or  as  his  sister,  I  did  not  care  which, — whichever 
Joseph  pleased — than  to  live  in  the  most  splendid  palace, 
and  share  the  most  brilliant  destiny  on  earth  !  I  cannot 
feel  in  my  heart  that  it  is  wrong  to  love  Joseph  1  I  feel  as 
if  it  would  be  wrong  not  to  love  him,  even  if  I  could  help 
it  1  But  I  cannot.  I  feel  that  I  shall  always  love  my  dear 
brother  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  But  I  feel 
that  yon  should  know  this,  and  I  fear  that  it  is  not  right 
for  me  to  marry — only  that  my  father — who  knows  all 
about  it,  who  is  both  wise  and  good,  and  who,  above  all, 
has  the  disposal  of  my  destiny — gives  me  to  you  1  There, 
my  lord  !  I  have  unvailed  to  you  the  holiest  sanctuary  of 
my  heart !  I  am  yours  by  my  father's  gift,  and  by  my  own 
promise.  Do  with  me  as  you  please — reject  or  receive  me !'' 
and  she  moved  as  though  to  withdraw  herself  from  his  em- 
brace, but  he  gathered  her  closer  to  his  bosom,  bent  over 
her,  parted  the  golden  ringlets  each  side,  pressed  his  lips  to 
her  pure  forehead,  and  said,  in  tones  as  low  and  musical  as 
flute  notes, 

"I  will  not  take  you — no  !  much  as  ray  heart  is  set  upon 


376  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

you,  I  will  not  take  you  as  any  one's  gift  but  your  own,  my 
Virginia  !  But,  do  you  not  like  me  a  little,  then  ?" 

"  Oh  !  very  much,  very  much  I  like  you — as  my  cousin 
— and  very  much  more,  because  I  was  so  unjust  to  you  once. 
But  see,  when  I  feel  most  impressed  and  inspired  by  your 
nobleness  and  gentleness,  by  all  your  goodness — then  I 
most  want  to  see  Joseph !  I  want  to  say  to  him  how  much 
I  esteem  you — because,  you  see  no  emotion,  however  happy, 
and  no  thought,  however  bright,  is  perfect  without  Joseph's 
sympathy.  But,  oh,  Lord  Cliffe,  much  as  I  esteem  you — 
indeed — "  She  burst  into  tears,  and  hid  her  face  in  his 
bosom,  as  though  it  had  been  her  father's. 

He  let  her  weep  freely,  caressing  her  gently,  tenderly  all 
the  while ;  and  when  she  had  recovered  herself,  he  said,  in 
a  soft  whisper, 

•'You  shall  not  be  called  to  fulfill  your  engagement,  dear 
one,  until  I  have  won  your  heart.  Without  loving  Joseph 
less,  you  shall  love  me  much  more — with  a  perfect  love  of 
which  you  have  never  dreamed  yet.  Now  tell  me  of  yonr 
brother  Joseph.  Tell  me  freely  about  your  childhood  and 
youth.  I  also  feel  that  I  shall  love  Joseph  for  his  sweet 
sister's  sake.  And  when  I  have  won  her  love  and  won  her 
hand,  her  brother's  welfare  shall  be  my  first  care." 

Thus  he  obtained  her  confidence. 

"You  are  so  good!  so  good  !"  said  she,  pressing  his 
hand  ;  "so  good — may  Heaven  bless  you  as  you  merit." 

After  a  little  time,  with  a  strange,  sad  smile,  he  said, 

"Virginia!  you  saw  me  place  a  miniature  in  my  bosom  ?" 

"Yes,  Clinton." 

"I,  too,  have  a  sister  of  the  heart.  That  was  the  portrait 
of  one  whom  I  once  loved  passionately — whom  I  now  love 
purely;  and  whom  I  must  continue  to  love  through  life." 

Virginia  gazed  at  him  earnestly,  anxiously,  feeling  now  a 
strange,  deep  sympathy  for  him,  such  as  she  had  never  felt 


THE    SISTER'S    HEART.  877 

before.  She  expected  him  to  tell  her  the  namg,  and  show 
her  the  portrait  of  this  "  one,"  but  he  did  not — only  with  a 
deep  sigh,  he  said,  earnestly, 

"  Virginia !  if  ever  in  after  life  this  sister  of  mine  crosses 
your  path,  or  gives  you  uneasiness,  think  of  your  brother, 
and  forgive  me  !     And  yet,  my  pure  angel,  how  different 
Go,  now,  dear  Virginia !     I,  in  my  turn,  need  solitude  for 
recompo&ure  ;"  and  so  he  dismissed  her. 


The  next  morning,  in  a  conversation  between  Lord  Cliffe 
and  Judge  Washington,  it  was  arranged'  that  the  voyage  of 
the  family  should  be  hastened,  in  order  that  the  former, 
whose  business  required  his  speedy  departure,  should  ac- 
company them.  It  was  also  agreed,  that  the  whole  party 
should  go  first  to  England,  and  remain  for  the  few  weeks  it 
would  take  to  settle  Lord  Cliffe's  affairs,  and  then  that  he 
should  accompany  them  on  their  continental  tour,  and  that 
the  marriage  should  take  place  on  their  return  to  Virginia. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

THE    SISTER'S   HEART. 

"  Only  be  sure  thy  daily  life, 
In  its  peace  and  in  its  strife, 
Never  shall  be  unobserved  ; 
We  pursue  thy  whole  career, 
And  hope  for  it,  or  doubt,  or  fear, 
So  thou  hast  kept  thy  path  nnswerved. 
We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways, 
With  our  blame,  with  our  praise, 
Our  shame  to  feel,  our  pride  to  show, 
Glad,  sorry,  but  indifferent — no." — Browning. 

BY  tacit  consent  never  had  Magdalene's  name  been  men- 
tioned in  the  family  since  the  last  conversation  about  her 


378  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

between  Helen  and  Virginia,  in  the  presence  of  Lord  Cliffe, 
or  of  any  other  one  not  known  as  an  intimate  friend  of  hers, 
it  had  never  been  mentioned  at  all.  Bat  as  the  day  ap- 
proached upon  which  they  were  to  leave  home  and  country 
for  a  distant  voyage  and  a  long  absence,  Virginia  felt  about 
her  heart  the  constraint  of  those  sister  ties  she  had  never 
been  able  or  willing  to  unloose.  She  could  not  depart 
without  leaving  some  fresh  evidence  of  her  continued  love 
for  Magdalene.  But  how  ?  Magdalene  was  lost.  Yes, 
but  Theodore  Hervey  was  gone  to  seek  her.  Therefore, 
Virginia  determined  to  write  a  letter  to  Magdalene,  and 
send  it  to  the  elder  Mr.  Hervey  to  be  transmitted  to  Theo- 
dore, to  be  delivered  to  Magdalene,  when  she  should  be 
found.  Virginia  wrote  this  letter,  eloquent  with  the  most 
earnest  and  anxious  affection,  entreating  her  sister  to  inform 
her  of  her  place  of  residence,  so  that  she  might  hasten  to 
see  her  as  soon  as  she  should  return  home ;.  or  if  it  suited 
her  convenience  to  do  so,  at  any  time  during  their  absence, 
to  return  to  the  hall,  where  the  housekeeper,  Polly  Pepper, 
had  standing  orders  to  keep  her  rooms  in  readiness  for  her 
reception,  assuring  her  with  the  most  loving  faith  that  her- 
self and  her  father  trusted  her  through  all  things  ;  that  if 
she  would  come  home,  only  come  home,  she  should  be  wel- 
comed with  the  most  joyful  affection  ;  that  her  confidence 
should  not  be  obtruded  upon ;  that  only  so  much  as  she 
would  volunteer  to  communicate  should  be  heard  of  the 
past  three  years'  history,  telling  her  that  ever  when  she 
knelt  down  at  her  o^vn  private  devotions,  she  prayed  first  and 
most  for  her  bosom's  sister ;  that  when  the  household 
gathered  in  family  prayer,  morning  and  evening,  they 
prayed  for  their  lost  daughter,  that  God  would  watch  over 
her,  and  guard  and  guide  her,  and  restore  her  safely  to 
their  love.  The  first  and  last  words  were :  "  Come" — 
"  Come  home." 


THE    SISTER'S    HEART.  879 

This  letter  she  folded,  sealed,  directed,  and  gave  to  Lord 
Clilfe,  with  a  request  that  he  would  dispatch  it  by  a  mes- 
senger to  the  Old  Forest  Parsonage.  Lord  Cliffe  read  the 
superscription  with  ill-restrained  agitation. 

"  '  Magdalene  Mountjoy,  care  of  Rev.  Theo.  Hervey,' 
— does  he  ? — where —  ?"  and  there  he  paused.  Virginia 
took  his  hand,  drew  him  to  the  distant  sofa  against  the 
window,  and  sitting  down  with  her  head  resting  against  his 
shoulder,  told,  amid  many  tears,  the  story  of  Magdalene's 
disappearance,  of  which,  of  course,  he  knew  far  more  than 
any  one  else.  It  was  well  that  she  sat  a  little  back  of  him, 
with  her  face  leaned  forward  downward  on  his  shoulder,  so 
that  she  could  not  see  the  white  storm  in  his  face.  It  was 
in  a  very  low,  deep,  steady  voice,  that  finally  he  asked  : 

"This  young  minister,  this  Theodore  Hervey,  was  the 
dark  picturesque  personage  I  met  here  the  first  winter  of 
my  arrival  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  knows  the  place  of  Magdalene's  abode  ?"  he 
further  inquired,  without  turning  his  head  toward  Virginia. 

"No,  he  does  not — only  you  see  this  is  it:  he  loved 
Magdalene,  and  offered  to  marry  her.  Magdalei.e  had  a 
great  esteem  for  him,  but  refused  him.  When  she  was 
missing,  he  took  it  to  heart  very  deeply.  He  has  pledged 
his  life  to  find  and  restore  her — that  is  it.  I  entrust  my 
letter  to  Win  as  the  most  probable  means  of  getting  it  to 
her.  Oh,  that  she  may  be  discovered  and  restored  to  us  ! 
Oh,  you  see  I  could  not  leave  the  country  without  leaving 
our  home  open  for  the  reception  of  my  sister,  and  without 
writing  and  entreating  her  by  my  love,  by  all  our  love,  to 
come  and  dwell  in  it !  There,  you  may  read  the  letter, 
if  you  will,  Clinton  ;  I  have  no  secrets  from  you." 

"No.  But  does  your  grandfather  approve  this  invita- 
tion under  the  circumstances,  the  strange  circumstances  ?" 


380  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

asked  Lord  Cliffe,  somewhat  abruptly,  and  still  wilh  averted 
face. 

"  My  dear,  venerable  father  will  open  his  arms  for  his 
other  daughter,  whenever  she  will  turn  and  lay  her  wild 
head  on  his  bosom  for  rest.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  my  dear, 
dear  father.  It  would  take  you  all  your  life  to  learn  how 
good  he  is.  There  is  only  one  more  among  those  I  know 
in  the  world  who  is  as  good  as  he  is — the  boy  of  his  own 
rearing — Joseph." 

"  What  do  you  think — that  Magdalene  will  return  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know ;  but  what  I  hopo  is,  that  Magdalene 
will  return,  and  that  Theodore,  who -deserves  her,  if  ever 
man  deserved  woman,  will  win  her  love  and  her  hand. 
WHAT'S  THE  MATTER  ?" 

This  sudden  terrified  question  was  put  by  Virginia,  as 
Lord  Cliffe  starting,  threw  off  her  hand,  and  strode  up  a-nd 
down  the  floor  in  strong  agitation.  When  he  recovered 
his  composure,  and  came  and  sat  by  her  side,  and  she 
anxiously  repeated  her  question,  he  replied  : 

"  A  pain,  a  pain,  Virginia !  Ginuie,  dearest,  did  you 
love  you.  brother  very  much  ?" 


The  next  morning,  the  whole  party,  consisting  of  Judge 
Washington,  Lord  Cliffe,  Virginia,  and  Helen  Hervey,  set 
out  in  the  old  family  carriage  for  Norfolk,  which  they 
reached,  by  easy  stages,  in  a  few  days.  Then  sending  the 
carriage  back  by  the  coachman  to  the  Hall,  they  embarked 
aboard  the  good  ship  Xyphias,  Captain  Harper,  and  sailed 
for  Liverpool,  where  they  arrived  after  a  tedious  passage 
of  two  months.  They  proceeded  at  once  to  London,  and 
put  up  at  handsome  lodgings,  intending  to  remain  in  the 
city  while  the  business  that  brought  Lord  Cliffe  to  England 
was  pending.  While  here,  they  went  out  every  day,  at- 
tended, as  often  as  he  could  leave  his  business,  by  Lord 


THE     6  I  S  T  K  K  '  ti     H  Jfi  A  K  T .  381 

CHffe,  as  cicerone,  to  see  all  that  was  remarkable  or  won- 
derful in  the  city  or  the  surrounding  country.  Among 
other  places  visited,  not  because  it  was  wonderful  or  even 
remarkable,  but  only  because  it  was  an  object  of  interest  as 
the  prospective  home  of  his  daughter,  was  Castle  Clifte, 
the  seat  of  Lord  Cliffe,  in  Hertfordshire  ;  in  which,  at  the 
invitation  of  its  master,  Judge  Washington,  with  his  party, 
passed  a  week  very  pleasantly.  When  the  affairs  of  Lord 
Cliffe  were  finally  settled,  they  set  out  for  Scotland,  visited 
all  the  places  made  classic  ground — yes,  holy  ground — by 
the  "  Great  Magician  of  the  North,"  and  visited  the  High- 
lands, passing  over  to  the  Orkney  and  the  Shetland  Isles. 
Here  the  temptation  to  cross  to  Denmark  and  Sweden,  the 
great  Norse  country,  was  so  powerful  as  scarcely  to  be  re- 
sisted ;  but,  unprepared  for  this  tour,  they  returned  to  Scot- 
land, and  journeyed  southward  and  westward  toward  Wales, 
where  they  spent  some  weeks  among  its  wild  and  beautiful 
scenery.  Next  they  visited  Ireland,  where  they  spent  the 
early  weeks  of  autumn.  Finally,  they  returned  to  London 
to  make  some  arrangements  previous  to  crossing  the  Chan- 
nel to  France,  and  spending  the  winter  in  Paris. 

It  was  at  the  period  of  their  return  to  London  that  & 
shock  met  them — a  shock  of  astonishment  to  all,  of  rapture 
to  one.  A  BOOK  had  burst  upon  the  startled  minds  of  men 
like  a  new  REVELATION — a  book  from  the  depths  of  Asia, 
written  by  a  young  missionary,  whose  name  was  already  the 
synonyme  of  courage  and  self-devotion,  but  nothing  more  ; 
and  yet  a  book  that  had  shaken  to  its  centre  the  triple 
kingdom  of  Letters,  Church,  and  State,  that  had  set  oppo- 
site parties  of  the  literati,  the  politicians,  and  Christians  at 
war — a  book,  upon  which,  as  upon  the  first  production  of 
every  great  original  thinker,  unmeasured  praise  and  blame 
had  been  bestowed,  yet  a  book  full  of  divine  light  and 
Christian  love.  Its  title,  THE  HARMONY  OF  THE  CUEEDS, 


382  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

by  the  Reverend  Joseph  Carey,  Missionary  to  Changduagn, 
Tonquin,  Further  India. 

You  know  before  I  tell  you  that  Virginia  possessed  her- 
self of  a  copy  of  this  book  before  eating  or  sleeping  Yes, 
you  do  not  wish  me  to  say  that  she  went  away  with  it  to 
her  room  ;  that  she  kissed  and  hugged  the  senseless  volume, 
and  loved  it,  and  talked  to  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  living 
thing ;  that  lying  on  her  sofa,  she  pored  over  its  contents, 
with  one  hand  supporting  her  glowing  cheek,  down  which 
the-bright  golden  ringlets  flashed,  and  the  other,  holding 
the  book,  upon  the  page,  of  which  her  gaze  was  riveted. 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  this  very  book  first  awakened  Vir- 
ginia's higher  intellect,  and  engaged  her  in  subjects  of 
general  interest  to  the  human  race  until  now  deemed  beyond 
and  above  her  comprehension  ;  that  she  who  sat  down  to 
its  perusal  only  a  loving  girl,  arose  from  its  reading  a  think- 
ing woman,  so  suddenly  is  the  mind  sometimes  aroused 
from  a  deep  sleep,  and  quickened  to  an  endless  life  and 
growth. 

They  went  to  France,  and  spent  the  winter  in  Paris. 

They  passed  the  spring  and  summer  in  making  the  tour 
of  Europe,  and  early  in  the  autumn  they  returned  to  En- 
gland, preparatory  to  sailing  for  home.  And  everywhere 
they  heard  the  name  of  Joseph  Carey  spoken  of  with  deep 
veneration  by  the  young,  with  high  approbation  by  the  old. 
He  had  seemed  almost  to  have  conquered  the  first  tempest 
of  opposition  that  bad  assailed  him.  Joseph  Carey,  the 
Missionary,  the  Christian  Politician,  the  Philosopher,  the 
Philanthropist,  was  the  admiration,  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
day.  His  works  on  Paganism,  Judaism,  and  Mohammedan- 
ism, written  before  the  first  was  published,  and  already 
translated  into  almost  every  language  of  Europe,  were 
everywhere  read. 

Virginia's  heart  bounded  for  joy,  and  her  eyes  flashed 


THE    SISTER'S    HEAKT.  388 

with  affectionate  triumph,  as  she  raised  them  to  the  counte- 
nance of  Lord  Cliffe,  who  watched  her,  and  thought,  as 
she  remembered  his  stately  condescension  in  promising  to 
befriend  Joseph,  "  You  patronize  Joseph  Carey  ?  that 
star-bright  one  !  the  welfare  of  Joseph  Carey  be  your  care? 
Why,  it  was  the  special  care  of  God  !"  And  oh  !  her  soul 
within  her  sang  for  joy  and  triumph,  to  think  that  Joseph, 
the  nameless,  penniless,  friendless  outcast,  the  street  pau- 
per, the  poor  foundling  boy,  dependent  on  a  child's  pity 
for  his  life,  dependent  upon  an  old  man's  charity  for  his 
nurture  and  education — yes,  dependent  on  them  for  his 
very  name — a  name  that  he  had  made  illustrious — that  this 
Joseph  had  turned  out  to  be — not  the  lost  heir  to  some 
immense  estate,  stolen  at  his  birth,  or  changed  in  his  cra- 
dle— oh,  no  ;  for  any  light  thrown  upon  his  birth  and  pa- 
rentage, he  was  the  pauper  foundling  still — but  God's  own 
child,  God's  chosen  child,  crowned  with  the  triple  crown  of 
goodness,  genius,  and  beauty ;  anointed  to  toil  and  suffer ; 
endowed  to  achieve  and  triumph.  Oh,  yes,  the  sister's 
heart  sang  for  joy,  and  the  burden  of  its  glee  was 

"  Io !  psean  1 
Joseph  !  Joseph  1" 

In  truth,  Lord  Cliffe  made  small  progress  in  her  heart;  very 
little  had  he  advanced  beyond  the  point  at  which  he  stood 
a  year  before,  when  she  had  given  him  her  quiet,  steady, 
cousinly  affectioh  and  confidence.  Far  enough  was  Virginia 
from  that  "one  undreamed-of  love,"  which  should  surmount 
without  destroying  all  other  loves — and  which  Lord  Cliffe 
had  hoped  and  expected  to  inspire  in  her  heart. 

In  this  posture  of  affairs  they  returned  to  the  United 
States.  They  landed  at  Norfolk,  and  proceeded  immedi- 
ately to  Richmond,  where  they  arrived  on  a  Saturday  night 
near  Christmas.  On  Sunday  morning  they  went  to  the 


38  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Episcopal  church,  and  heard  an  excellent  sermon  from  the 
stationed  minister,  Doctor  Goodwin.  A  sermon  was  an- 
nounced for  the  evening,  at  seven  o'clock.  In  the  evening 
Judge  Washington  and  his  party  went.  Though  the  church 
was  large,  it  was  crowded  to  excess,  so  that  our  party,  who 
came  late,  were  obliged  to  take  a  pew  in  the  lower  end  .»f 
the  building  near  the  door.  They  entered  and  sat  down — 
the  Judge,  Helen,  Lord  Cliffe,  and  Virginia,  in  the  order  I 
have  named  them — Ginnie  at  the  head  of  the  pew.  Yet 
what  was  this  ?  What  strange,  pleasing,  painful  influence 
was  this  ?  What  new  experience  ?  Was  the  air  highly 
charged  with  electricity  ?  No  sooner  was  Virginia  seated, 
than  her  nerves  thrilled,  and  her  heart  thrilled  with  a  new, 
strange,  half-pleasurable,  half-painful  emotion  !  The  min- 
ister arose  to  give  out  the  hymn — the  words  of  which  she 
had  always  admired  with  enthusiasm,  and  which  now  kindled 
her  heart  to  its  old  fervor  !  Yet  this  did  in  no  measure  ac- 
count for  the  strange,  new  sensation  of  mingled  trouble  and 
delight  that  agitated  her  bosom,  when  burst  from  the  full 
choir  the  inspiring  music  and  words  of  the  hackneyed  but 
beautiful  hymn — 

"From  Greenland's  Icy  mountain*, 

From  India's  cural  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 

Boll  down  their  golden  sand : 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain."  - 

What  was  there  in  this  music  and  this  poetry  that  had 
inspired  her  a  score  of  times  before,  but  that  now  nearly 
overwhelmed  her  with  the  force  of  a  new,  strange,  and  fear- 
ful experience,  that  sent  the  blood  pouring  into  her  heart, 
while  an  icy  coldness  spread  like  a  garment  over  her  ?  What 
was  there  in  the  cadences  of  this  music,  that  made  every 


THE      S  I  S  T  M  R  '  S      HEART.  385 

separate  note  seem  a  separate,  sentient,  conscious  being,  ap- 
pealing to  her  soul,  filling  it  with  a  mingled  exstacy  and 
anguish,  that  in  its  fearful  excess  nearly  destroyed  her  ? 
The  hymn  was  finished,  and  she  sank  down  in  the  corner  of 
the  pew  overwhelmed. 

Dr.  Goodwin  arose,  and  gave  out  the  text — "Go PREACH 
THE  GOSPEL  TO  EVERY  NATION."  The  subject  of  his  sermon 
— Foreign  Missions.  In  spite  of  the  strange  excitement  of 
her  nerves — or,  indeed,  as  if  the  master  influence  over  her 
had  changed  its  mode,  and  now  exercised  a  calming  power, 
she  grew  serene,  and  then  in  a  strange,  sweet  quiet,  she  sat 
until  she  became  profoundly  interested  in  this  sermon,  as 
heretofore  she  had  been  in  every  subject  that  nearly  or 
remotely  concerned  the  mission  and  the  life  of  Joseph 
Carey. 

Yet  at  the  conclusion  of  the  sermon,  when  the  last  hymn 
arose  in  a  swelling  volume  of  harmony — again  she  paled  and 
flushed  with  that  strange,  thrilling,  ague-shake,  and  fever 
glow — and  again,  at  its  conclusion,  she  sank  half  fainting 
back  in  her  seat,  in  the  dark  corner  of  the  pew.  When  the 
hymn  was  concluded,  and  before  the  benediction  was  pro- 
nounced, Dr.  Goodwin,  turning  to  a  gentleman  who  sat 
obscure  in  the  back  seat  of  the  pulpit,  invited  him  to  ap- 
proach, and  as  he  arose  and  advanced  to  the  front  of  the 
pulpit,  presented  him  to  the  congregation  with  these 
words — 

"  My  dear  brethren  and  friends,  I  have  especial  joy  this 
evening,  in  introducing  to  your  acquaintance  one  whose 
name  has  long  been  dear  as  familiar  to  every  Christian  heart 
— the  Rev.  Joseph  Carey,  late  Missionary  to  Changduugn, 
Tonquin." 

A  slight  murmur  of  surprise  and  pleasure  ran  through 
the  congregation — it  subsided — and  then  in  a  few  pointed 
words,  full  of  truth,  nature,  and  Christian  affection,  Mr 


336  THE      TWO     SISTERS. 

Carey  expressed  the  joy  he  felt  in  once  more  greeting  hia 
countrymen  and  fellow-christians,  and  sat  down. 

Then  Dr.  Goodwin  announced  that  his  esteemed  brother 
would  lecture  at  that  church  on  the  next  Wednesday  even- 
ing— the  subject  of  the  lecture  being  the  Christian  Missions 
in  Further  India. 

Then  the  minister  spread  forth  his  hands,  and  the  congre- 
gation arose  and  bowed  their  heads  to  receive  the  benedic- 
tion. That  over,  the  congregation  began  to  move — some 
to  depart,  and  some  to  crowd  up  near  the  altar  to  welcome 
the  returned  missionary,  who,  with  the  minister,  was  de- 
scending from  the  pulpit.  Judge  Washington  bending 
down  the  pew  toward  Virginia,  said, 

"  My  child,  come  !     We  must  go  and  welcome  Joseph  I' 

But  Virginia,  very  pale,  said, 

"  Not  now  ;  wait  1  wait  till  the  crowd  has  thined.  Stay 
here  !  he  will  not  leave  the  church  till  all  the  congregation 
are  gone,  and  then  he  must  pass  down  this  way.  Stay,  do, 
dear  sir,  indulge  me!" 

And  they  sat  still,  watching  the  congratulating  crowd 
that  surrounded  the  missionary,  whose  head  could  just  be 
seen  above  them.  At  last  they  began  to  disperse,  and 
passed  down  the  aisles. 

When  all  had  left  the  church,  with  the  exception  of  the 
minister,  the  missionary,  and  one  or  two  old  members  of  the 
vestry,  who  were  also  intimate  acquaintances  of  the  Jud<re, 
the  latter  signed  to  his  party,  and  leaving  the  pew,  drew 
Helen  Hervey's  arm  within  his  own,  and  followed  by  Lord 
Cliffe,  conducting  Virginia,  passed  up  the  middle  aisle 
toward  the  front  of  the  altar,  where  Joseph  still  stood, 
conversing  with  Dr.  Goodwin,  Governor  Mountjoy,  and 
another  distinguished  gentleman.  Joseph  Carey  stood 
there  under  the  full,  clear,  bright  light  of  the  altar  chande- 
liers. But  Virginia,  she  was  a  little  in  the  rear,  leaning 
heavily  upon  the  arm  of  Lord  Cliffe. 


THE    SISTER'S    u  K  A  R  x .  387 

She  saw  Joseph  Carey,  as  he  stood  in  the  full  light, 
hot  ween  the  venerable  minister  Doctor  Goodwin,  and  the 
equally  venerable  Governor  Mountjoy — to  her  eyes — a 
prince  of  Heaven's  own  crowning — with  his  court  around 
him.  His  tall  and  stately  form  was  draped  by  the  rich 
furred  Spanish  cloak  that  hung  from  his  shoulders  with  the 
classic  grace  of  the  Roman  toga,  and  the  regal  dignity  of  the 
ermined  purple ;  his  broad,  white,  glorious  brow — around 
which  the  fair  golden  hair,  shining  like  a  sun-ray,  might 
have  seemed  a  halo,  or  a  crown — combined  and  harmonized 
the  celestial  beauty  of  an  angel's  forehead  with  the  royal 
majesty  of  a  king's  front — how  elevated,  how  exalted — how 
gloriously  transformed — yes  I —  how  divinely  transfigured 
he  seemed  to  her. 

But  then  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  brain  must  have  dazzled 
Virginia's  vision,  so  that  fire  flashed  before  her  eyes,  and 
she  saw  stars,  and  crowns,  and  halos  where  none  were  to 
be  seen. 

Yet  I  wish  I  could  place  this  missionary  before  you  as 
he  stood  there,  and  electrify  your  hearts  with  the  impression 
he  really  made. 

In  truth,  a  great  change  had  passed  over  Joseph  Carey. 
He  was  no  longer  the  delicate,  though  beautiful  boy, 
shuddering  and  torn  by  passion,  as  the  sapling  is  shaken 
and  uprooted  by  the  whirlwind — faint  and  pale  with  passion, 
as  the  sapling  beaten  down  and  blanched  in  the  tempest 
and  the  flood. 

No ! — but  the  mature,  self-possessed,  self-governed, 
regnant  man.  A  very  handsome,  portly  man,  of  very  noble 
presence,  constraining  a  high  respect  and  deference  even 
from  those  veteran  dignitaries  of  church  and  state  around 
him. 

As  soon  as  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  saw  Judge  Washing- 
ton and  his  party  approaching,  a  smile  of  surprise  and 


388  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

pleasure  lighted  up  his  countenance,  and  stepping  forth,  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  greet  him.  They  shook  hands  warmly, 
warmly  expressing  the  joy  they  felt  at  this  unexpected 
meeting.  Had  they  followed  the  impulses  of  their  hearts 
they  would  have  embraced  ;  but  ours  is  a  cold-mannered,  if 
not  a  cold-hearted  nation.  He  shook  hands  with  Helen 
Hervey  next,  and  then  the  Judge,  stepping  on  one  side, 
revealed  to  his  view  Virginia,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Lord 
Cliffe. 

"  Lady  Cliffe  !"  said  Joseph,  advancing  at  once,  though 
his  brow  flushed,  offering  his  hand,  and  smiling  upon  her. 

But  oh  !  an  electric  shock  could  not  have  been  so 
powerful  in  its  effect  upon  her  nerves  as  the  touch  of  that 
long-lost  hand — the  meeting  of  that  long-lost  gaze.  She 
wished  to  reply — to  disabuse  him  of  his  mistake,  and  to 
welcome  him  home — she  wished  to  say,  "  No,  Joseph  !  your 
sister,  Ginnie  Washington  still,  who  is  so  happy,  so  happy 
to  see  you  !"  But  she  durst  not,  she  could  not— a  strange 
bashfulness  and  humility  never  before  felt  in  reference  to 
her  brother,  blended  with  her  affection,  and  prevented  her 
speech.  There  was  a  sovereignty  even  in  his  gracious 
smile  and  softly-modulated  tone,  that  awed  her  into  silence 
— that  awed  her  into  stillness — while  the  love-lit  eyes  that 
beamed  upon  hers  awoke  now  for  the  first  time  the  woman's 
deep  passionate  nature  to  life.  To  be  so  full  of  life — new 
life — strong  life ;  and  yet  so  still,  and  pale,  and  passive — 
her  eyelids  dropping — dropping  slowly  before  the  gentle 
gaze  fixed  upon  her. 

'•  Lady  Cliffe,  I  presume  ?"  said  Mr.  Carey,  looking 
around,  inquiringly,  still  holding  her  hand. 

"No,  sir;  Miss  Washington,  as  y-t,"  replied  Lord 
Cliffe,  in  no  very  benignant  tone,  and  in  no  very  benignant 
manner. 

A    flash    of  unutterable  joy   irradiated    Joseph  Carey's 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  389 

countenance  an  instant,  notwithstanding  the  warning  words 
"as  yet."  His  eyes  fixed  upon  hers  again,  and  with  a 
gentle  dominion  said — what  only  her  profound  hea,ri  heard 
— then  quickly  turning  to  Lord  Cliffe,  he  said,  apologeti- 
cally— 

"  My  serious  error,  sir,  grew  out  of  a  paragraph  in  an 
old  English  newspaper,  which  announced  your  then  ap- 
proaching marriage  with  Miss  Washington." 

A  pang  of  remorse — she  scarcely  knew  wherefor — pierced 
Virginia's  heart  at  this  speech. 

In  reply  to  it  Lord  Cliffe  bowed   stiffly. 

All  this  passed  in  an  instant,  and  then  Judge  Washington, 
coming  up,  begged  the  happiness  of  Joseph  Carey's  com- 
pany next  day  to  dinner,  in  their  private  apartments  at  the 
Richmond  Hotel.  Thanking  him,  Joseph  Carey  accepted 
the  invitation,  and  the  party  separated. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

CROSS     PURPOSES. 

"For  there  in  probation  to  decree, 
And  many  aud  loug  must  the  trials  be  : 
Thou  shall  victoriously  endure 
If  that  brow  is  true  and  those  eyes  aro  sure." — Browning. 

VIRGINIA  had  not  spoken  during  the  interview.  She  did 
not  speak  during  the  drive  from  the  church  to  the  hotel. 
She  did  not  speak  even  when  she  found  herself  alone  with 
Helen  Hervey  in  the  sleeping  apartment  occupied  in  com- 
nion  by  the  two  girls.  She  seemed  enwrapped  in  a  happy 
24 


390  THE     TWO     SISTEKS. 

trance,  too  happy  to  admit  of  thought,  still  less  of  speech. 
She  retired  to  rest  in  the  same  unbroken  silence,  and  all  night 
long  with  closed  eyes  and  soft  smile  she  lived  in  the  meaning 
of  one  poem — the  happy,  eloquent  gaze  that  spoke  to  her 
heart  through  Joseph's  eyes,  when  he  knew  that  she  was  free. 
With  the  morning  vanished  the  blissful  vision  and  came 
the  reality.  She  remembered  her  grandfather's  wishes  and 
the  world's  expectations,  and  above  all,  her  own  implied 
engagement  to  Lord  Cliffe  ;  and  with  these,  the  predomi- 
nant and  deathless  attachment  between  herself  and  Joseph 
Carey.  But  she  recalled  all  these  irreconcilable  facts  with- 
out the  slightest  confusion  of  ideas,  or  doubt,  or  fear.  Her 
head  was  clear,  and  her  heart  was  strong,  and  her  line  of 
life  and  action  drawn  out  brightly,  clearly,  harmoniously 
before  her.  She  read  the  past  with  uridimmed  eyes  now, 
as  she  read  the  future  with  undazzled  ones.  She  understood 
perfectly  now  the  magnanimity,  the  self-immolation  with 
which  Joseph  Carey  had  become  an  exile  and  a  wanderer 
for  her  sake;  venerated  the  faith,  hope,  and  love,  with 
which  he  had  sought  to  devote  that  exile  to  the  cause  of 
God  and  humanity  ;  and  gloried  in  the  courage,  energy,  and 
perseverance  with  which  he  had  overcome  obstacles  of  co- 
lossal magnitude  and  achieved  success.  And  now  for  her 
own  part — I  repeat  it — her  head  was  clear,  her  heart  strong, 
and  her  line  of  life  and  action  drawn  out  clearly,  brightly, 
harmoniously  before  her. 

She  joined  the  family  at  breakfast,  wearing  a  fresh  and 
joyous  countenance,  such  as  she  had  not  worn  since  her 
sixteenth  year — and  all  remarked  it  in  silence,  ascribing  the 
happy  change  to  the  right  cause — Joseph  Carey's  return — 
but  with  somewhat  different  sentiments.  Helen  Hervey 
with  quiet  sympathy,  Judge  Washington  with  uneasiness, 
Lord  Cliffe  with  anxiety.  When  breakfast  was  over,  and 
they  had  risen  from  the  table,  and  the  Judge  was  in  the 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  391 

act  of  putting  on  his  greatcoat  to  go  out,  Virginia  followed 
him,  laid  her  hand  softly  on  his  arm,  and  said  gently, 

"  Father,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  alone,  somewhere  ;  I  want 
to  open  ray  heart  to  you." 

He  looked  down  at  her  serious  though  happy  face,  and 
said,  with  an  air  of  some  anxiety  too,  "When  I  return, 
dear  child.  I  have  been  summoned  in  haste  to  go  out  on 
urgent  business.  When  I  return,  my  dear,  I  will  hear  you." 
And  stooping  and  pressing  a  kiss  upon  her  open  brow,  he 
buttoned  up  his  coat,  took  his  hat  and  stick,  and  was  pass- 
ing out,  when  at  the  door  he  was  arrested  by  Lord  Cliife, 
who  begged  the  favor  of  an  interview  with  Judge  Wash- 
ington, if  his  convenience  served.  The  Judge  turned  to 
look  at  him,  scarcely  able  to  repress  a  smile  at  the  thought 
of  how  much  he  was  in  demand  upon  this  especial  morning. 
"  My  dear  sir,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  called  in  haste  to  the 
bedside  of  my  old  friend,  General  Mountjoy,  who  is  taken 
suddenly  ill.  When  I  come  back  I  shall  be  happy  to  see 
yon  in  your  own  apartment  or  in  mine." 

"  Permit  me  to  accompany  you,  Judge  Washington,  as 
far  as  the  door  of  General  Mountjoy's  house.  I  can  open 
my  business  as  we  walk." 

"  I  do  beseech  you  to  excuse  me,  sir,  I  am  in  great  haste. 
When  I  come  back  I  shall  be  at  your  commands,"  and  bow- 
ing deeply,  the  Judge  walked  forth.  He  had  not  proceeded 
far,  however,  when  he  met  Mr.  Carey  walking  arm  in  arm 

with  the  Honorable  J M ,  who,  though  then  but  a 

rising  star,  was  yet  one  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his  day. 
Bowing  and  excusing  himself,  Mr.  Carey  took  a  moment's 
leave  of  his  distinguished  companion,  and  turning  with 
Judge  Washington,  he  said — 

"  My  dear  sir,  can  you  grant  me  the  favor  of  an  inter- 
riew  this  morning,  at  your  earliest  convenient  hour  ?" 

"  Humph  1  my  dear  Joseph,  a  prime  minister  or  a  royal 


392  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

favorite,  could  not  be  more  in  demand  than  I  am  this  morn 
ing.  I  have  already  three  appointments.  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  dinner.  After  that  I  am  at  your 
service.  Good-morning,  sir." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  was  on  my  way  to  your  lodgings.  Have  I 
your  permission  to  call  on  Miss  Washington  this  morning  ?" 

"Ay;  go,  Joseph  !     Good-morning." 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Carey,  bowing,  and 
quickening  his  steps  to  rejoin  Mr.  M . 

Joseph  Carey  came  up  with  his  companion,  and  they 
walked  together  until  they  came  in  front  of  the  Richmond 
Hotel,  when  parting,  the  latter  walked  on,  and  the  former 
entered  the  house.  He  found  Virginia  alone  in  their  pri- 
vate parlor.  Lord  Cliffe  had  left  the  house  soon  after 
Judge  Washington.  Helen  Hervey  was  lying  down  with 
a  slight  indisposition. 

Reader,  I  shall  not  intrude  upon  the  reunion  of  these 
long-severed  friends.  Let  it  suffice  to  say  that  Joseph 
passed  an  hour  with  Virginia  alone  in  the  parlor — that 
then  they  parted  until  five  o'clock,  she  remaining  on  the 
sofa  in  a  smiling  trance — he  leaving  the  house  with  a  happy 
air  and  regnant  step.  Observe :  A  few  paces  from  the 
door  he  met  Judge  Washington  coming  home ;  he  bowed, 
smilingly  renewed  his  promise  to  dine  with  the  Judge,  and 
went  on.  A  little  further  on  he  encountered  Lord  Cliffe 
returning.  The  gentlemen  silently  touched  their  hats  in 
passing — that  was  all — except :  Lord  Cliffe  quickened  his 
steps  and  overtook  the  Judge  just  as  he  had  reached  the  hotel, 
and  they  entered  the  house  together.  Judge  Washington  ex- 
pressed his  readiness  to  receive  Lord  Cliffe  in  his  own  apart- 
ment, and  the  two  gentlemen  proceeded  thither  together 
Lord  Cliffe's  business  with  the  Judge  was  to  entreat  him  to 
urge  his  granddaughter  to  name  an  early  day — a  very  early 
day — for  their  marriage.  He  did  not  wish,  he  said,  unduly 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  893 

to  hasten  the  lady  or  her  friends,  but  that  really  the  long 
delay  \vas  more  than  enough  to  exhaust  the  patience  of  a  far 
more  patient  suitor  than  himself.  He  did  not  wish  to  sep- 
arate the  only  child  from  her  aged  parent — he  only  wished 
to  secure  her ;  and  having  done  so,  would  be  quite  willing  to 
pass  the  first  year  of  their  marriage  in  America — and  after 
that,  alternate  years  in  America  and  in  England,  hoping 
that  the  Judge  would  always  accompany  them  to  the  latter 
country.  The  Judge  bowed  in  reply  to  this  speech,  and 
said  that  he  would  speak  to  Virginia — would  urge  his  lord- 
ship's wishes,  backing  them  with  his  own  earnest  desire ; 
but  that  there  his  influence  must  stop — he  would  not,  and 
should  not,  coerce  her  will  in  the  matter. 

And  so  the  interview  terminated.  And  the  Judge, 
remembering  his  promise  to  Virginia,  rang  the  bell  and 
desired  her  presence.  Virginia  entered  the  room  with  a 
book  in  her  hand  and  her  thumb  in  it.  She  came  in,  and 
drawing  a  foot-cushion  up  to  her  father's  easy-chair,  sat 
down  at  his  feet,  and  laying  the  book  open  on  his  knees, 
with  her  hands  resting  upon  its  pages,  turned  her  eyes  up  to 
his,  with  an  expression  of  serious  archness,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  term. 

"  Well,  Virginia,  my  child,  I  have  sent  for  you  not  only 
in  accordance  with  ray  promise  to  you,  but  also  in  fulfill- 
ment of  one  just  made  to  Lord  Cliffe.  And  I  suspect,  Vir- 
ginia, that  both  relate  to  the  same  subject — your  marriage." 

Virginia's  face  flushed,  but  did  not  lose  its  happy,  confi- 
dent expression.  Her  grandfather  then  taking  both  her 
hands  in  his,  and  looking  down  upon  her  with  the  most 
earnest  and  anxious  affection,  began  to  speak  in  very  serious 
and  even  solemn  tones.  He  reported  to  her  the  sum  of 
Lord  Cliffe's  conversation,  and  repeating  all  that  he  had 
said  to  her  upon  a  former  occasion,  touching  the  long  delay 
of  Inr  marriage,  now  longer  by  more  than  a  year  than  then 


3U-4  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

— Ills  own  earnest  desire  to  see  her  settled  in  life  before  he 
should  be  called  away — his  own  great  age — and  the  uncer- 
tainty of  life — finally,  he  besought  his  child,  as  she  loved 
him,  to  make  him  easy,  and  her  suitor  happy,  by  naming  a 
day  for  their  marriage. 

"  Now,  was  it  not  in  relation  to  this  marriage  that  you 
came  to  speak  to  me,  Virginia  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  grandfather,  it  was — and  to  tell  you  that  I 
know  that  it  would  be  wrong  in  me  to  suffer  Lord  Cliffe  to 
go  on  any  longer  under  the  influence  of  an  error." 

"  What  is  that,  my  dear  Virginia  ?" 

"  To  permit  Lord  Cliffe  to  devote  any  more  of  his  time 
and  attention  to  one  who  can  never  be  his  wife  !" 
-  "My  child,  you  shock  and  grieve  me  beyond  measure  1" 
said  the  Judge,  with  a  look  of  sorrow  and  amazement. 

"My  dear  and  honored  grandfather,  I  very  much  regret 
that  it  is  so — but  listen  to  my  objections,  dear  sir,  and  you 
will  not  blame  me  ;  hear  me  quite  out,  and  I  am  sure  you 
will  not  feel  anxious  or  even  uneasy  about  me  !" 

"Go  on!" 

"  Dear  grandfather,  please  to  tvy  and  remember  what 
happened  little  more  than  a  year  ago.  When  you  first 
mentioned  this  subject  of  my  marriage  with  Lord  Cliffe  to 
me,  I  told  you  at  once  whom  I  loved  better  than  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  put  together.  And  when,  notwithstanding  all 
that,  you  advised  me  to  receive  Lord  Cliffe's  addresses,  I 
consented  to  do  so,  only  telling  him,  in  all  candor,  of  that 
affection  of  which  I  had  first  told  you.  He  only  smiled, 
entreating  time  and  opportunity  for  trying  to  win  the  first 
place  in  my  heart.  Bound  by  your  wishes  and  my  own 
promise  to  you,  I  agreed  to  that.  I  have  kept  my  promise. 
For  more  than  a  year  we  have  lived  in  each  other's  almost 
exclusive  society,  and  I  have  given  him  every  opportunity 
he  sought,  and  I  have  tried  to  love  him  for  your  sake.  In 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  395 

v;iin !  For  though  I  love  him  even  a  little  more  than  I  did 
last  yea'-,  yet  it  is  only  with  that  affection  induced  by  habit 
and  association,  and  which  I  always  feel  for  any  person  or 
any  thing — not  positively  disagreeable,  with  which  I  have 
lived  for  any  length  of  time,  and  not  the  least  dependent 
upon  or  connected  with  respect  or  esteem.  I  will  tell  you, 
dear  grandfather,  my  whole  opinion  of  Lord  Clifle.  I  will 
tell  you  the  various  impressions  he  has  made  upon  me  at 
various  times,  and  the  last  result  in  my  final  idea  of  him. 
When  I  first  saw  my  cousin,  and  during  the  first  winter  of 
our  acquaintance,  my  impression  of  him  was  very  unfavor- 
able— that  unfavorable  impression  was  effaced  when  a  closer 
association  exhibited  to  me  the  fascination  of  his  manners 
and  the  splendor  of  his  talents,  which  even  dazzled  and 
bewildered  me  somewhat.  A  longer  and  more  intimate 
acquaintance,  however,  familiarized  me  with  these  adventi- 
tious accomplishments,  and  deprived  them  of  their  danger- 
ous and  misleading  power,  while  it  revealed  to  me  the 
character  of  Clinton  Carey,  Lord  Cliffe." 

"  Or  rather,  what  you  suppose  to  be  bis  real  character." 

"  No,  dear  grandfather,  I  am  not  mistaken  ;  the  cloud  of 
unjust  prejudice,  and  the  glare  of  excessive  admiration  have 
both  passed  away  from  my  vision,  and  I  see  clearly." 

"  What,  then,  is  the  sum-total  of  your  estimate,  social, 
physical,  moral,  and  mental,  of  your  lover,  Lord  Clifi'e  ?" 

"  My  suitor,  Lord  Cliffe — for  lover  he  is  not,  and  has 
never  been,  and  never  will  be — well,  then,  I  appraise  my 
suitor  thus :  Socially,  he  is  a  nobleman  of  high  rank  and 
great  wealth,  and  promises  to  become  a  statesman  of  great 
eminence.  Physically,  he  is  an  eminently  handsome  man, 
with  fair  distingue.  Mentally,  he  is  gifted  with  splendid 
talents  and  brilliant  accomplishments.  Morally,  he  is  brave, 
ardent,  generous,  magnanimous  ;  but — but — somewhere,  in 
bis  sentiments,  or  feelings,  or  principles,  or  opinions,  I 


596  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

know  not  which,  he  is  unsound.  I  could  not  confide  in 
him.  I  could  not  repose  in  him.  I  could  not  feel  safe  and 
at  ease  with  him  as  I  do  with,  and  as  I  could  with — Joseph 
Carey." 

"  Ah,  Joseph  Carey !  I  very  much  suspect,  my  dear, 
that  it  was  the  miraculous  touch  of  Joseph  Carey's  hand 
last  night  that  caused  the  clouds  and  glare  to  pass  from 
before  your  eyes !" 

"  No — and — yes,  grandfather.  No — for  if  yesterday  you 
had  urged  this  marriage  upon  me,  yesterday  I  should  have 
replied  as  now  ;  yes — for  it  was  certainly  the  reappearance 
of  Mr.  Carey  that  caused  Lord  Cliffe  to  press  the  subject 
of  our  speedy  marriage.  Yes — for  the  meeting  with  Joseph 
Carey  has  taught  me  this — that  to  him  only  can  I  in  right- 
eousness give  my  hand." 

"Virginia,  my  dear  child,  this  is  romance,  folly." 

"Listen,  dear  grandfather,"  she  said,  and  her  counte- 
nance became  earnest,  and  even  devout  in  its  expression. 
"  Listen  to  me — '  I  speak  the  words  of  truth  and  sober- 
ness.' I  have  to-day  been  reading  the  SOLEMNIZATION  OF 
MATRIMONY — wherein  the  woman,  calling  most  devoutly  on 
God  to  witness  her  vow — promises,  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey  the  man  she  marries  until  DEATH.  Oh,  God  ! 
what  an  awful  vow ;  what  an  awful  vow,  even  in  favor  of 
one  whom  we  do  love  deeply  and  honor  highly,  and  would 
be  willing  to  obey  implicitly.  What  an  awful  vow  ! — not 
to  say  perjury — not  to  say  sacrilege — not  to  say  BLAS- 
PHEMY !  as  it  would  be  on  my  lips,  were  I  to  stand  before 
God's  altar  and  call  on  God's  name  to  witness  that  I  would 
LOVE  TILL  DEATH  a  man  whom,  as  a  husband,  I  could  not 
Icve  at  all — that  I  would  HONOR  TILL  DEATH  a  man  I  cannot 
sincerely  respect  even — that  I  would  OBEY  TILL  DEATH  a 
mau  in  whose  integrity  I  cannot  even  trust !  Good  Heaven  ! 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  397 

I  wonder  a  woman's  tongue  is  not  palsied  with  horror  when 
she  commits  such  an  awful  perjury !" 

"  She  considers  it  meuely  a  form.  Too  much,  perhaps, 
that  ceremony  has  been  considered  a  form." 

"  Merely  a  form  ! — with  the  heart,  and  brain,  and  con- 
science assenting  to  every  inspired  word  contained  in  the 
vows,  if  they  are  spoken  in  sincerity,  and  God  invoked  to 
witness  them  1" 

"Yes,  too  much  this  has  been  considered  a  mere  form." 

"  Dear  grandfather,  all  this — love,  honor,  service,  obe- 
dience— I  can  promise  with  a  clear  conscience,  a  fervent 
heart,  and  a  steadfast  will,  and  in  the  sight  of  God,  to 
Joseph  Carey.  For  I.  have  loved,  and  honored,  and  obeyed 
him  from  the  time  I  can  first  remember  till  the  time  he  left 
us.  Never  a  doubt  of  his  wisdom  or  goodness  has  crossed 
my  mind.  I  love  and  honor  him  more  than  ever." 

Judge  Washington  groaned.  His  family  prejudices,  in 
spite  of  his  better  nature,  were  deeply  wounded.  He  re- 
plied : 

"  Virginia,  I  will  not  insist  upon  your  marrying  Lord 
Cliffe.  Perhaps,  though  it  was  Colonel  Carey's  darling 
wish,  and  is  also  my  earnest  desire,  and  I  stand  over  you 
invested  with  his  delegated,  as  well  as  my  own  personal 
authority,  perhaps,  strictly  speaking,  I  have  no  right  to  do 
so ;  but  I  certainly  object  to  your  marrying  Joseph  Carey, 
a  young  man  who,  though  admirable  in  many  respects,  is 
no  match  for  Miss  Washington." 

"  No  match  for  me,  grandfather  !  No  !  Heaven  doth 
truly  know  that  he  is  not,  unless  a  superior  is  a  match  for 
an  inferior." 

"You  are,  as  I  said,  romantic,  Virginia.  Think,  my 
child,  how  it  would  sound  in  your  native  county,  where 
you  are  the  last  sole  representative  of  two  of  the  oldest 
families,  and  two  of  the  largest  estates  in  the  county ;  and 


398  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

wheie,  from  the  hour  you  were  born  and  known  to  he  a 
girl,  it  was  a  subject  of  speculation  as  to  who  your  future 
husband,  the  future  master  of  the  two  great  estates  would 
possibly  be,  how  will  it  sound  through  the  State — the  Slate 
in  which  your  hand  was  considered  the  one  great  prize  to 
be  contended  for  by  the  most  distinguished  among  the  un- 
married men  of  the  commonwealth — how  will  it  sound  when 
it  is  said  that  Miss  Carey  Washington  has  bestowed  her 
hand  and  fortune  upon  a  penniless  adventurer,  indebted  to 
her  mother's  charity  for  his  very  name  ?" 

"A  name  that  he  has  made  illustrious!  Oh,  grand- 
father, I  do  not  know  how  it  may  sound  to  old  Virginian 
prejudices,  when  old  Virginian  families  hear  that  '  Miss 
Carey  Washington  has  bestowed  her  hand  and  fortune  upon 
a  penniless  adventurer ;'  but  I  know  what  a  proud  and 
happy  day  it  will  be  for  Ginnie  when  Joseph  Carey  takes 
her  to  his  heart  forever  !  Grandfather,  I  wish  you  could 
feel  as  I  do,  as  my  sainted  mother  would  feel,  were  she  on 
earth  1" 

"  Virginia  !  I  said  that  I  objected  to  your  marriage  with 
this  young  man, "repeated  Judge  Washington,  emphatically, 
as  he  folded  his  arms,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked 
at  her  gravely. 

Virginia  met  his  steady  gaze  unflinchingly — though  her 
eyes  were  full  of  sadness  and  determination. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  this,  Virginia  ?" 

"  That  I  am  very  sorry,  sir." 

"  But  determined,  nevertheless,  to  marry  him  ?" 

Virginia  was  silent,  and  dropped  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground. 

'•  Favor  me  with  a  reply,  if  you  please,  Miss  Washing- 
ton." 

Virginia's  brow  crimsoned  with  confusion.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  all  her  young  life  that  her  grandfather  had 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  399 

called  her  Miss  Washington,  and  it  wounded  her  deeply — 
nevertheless  she  replied,  in  clear,  steady  tones, 

"  My  dear  grandfather,  I  believe  that  one  so  wise  and 
good  as  yourself  will  not  long  persist  in  an  objection, 
founded  only  on  the  prejudice  of  rank,  and  to  one  so  noble 
as  Joseph  Carey  1  and  believing  in  that,  and  trusting  fu 
God,  we  will  wait  a  little.  Dear  grandfather,  forgive  me  if 
I  have  offended  you,  and  bless  me  for  my  dead  parents'sake — 
for  I  cannot  smile  again  to-day  if  you  are  displeased  with  me." 

The  Judge  laid  his  hand  upon  her  fair,  bowed  head,  and 
gently  said, 

"  God  bless  you,  Virginia,  my  child ;  and  God  bring 
you,  or — me,  to  the  right  way  of  thinking  1" 

And  so  he  dismissed  her. 

Joseph  Carey  came  to  dinner  according  to  appointment, 
and,  notwithstanding  all  that  had  passed  between  Virginia 
and  her  grandfather,  Judge  Washington  received  him  with 
the  utmost  kindness  of  manner,  and  soon  drew  him  into 
giving  an  account  of  Further  India,  the  Christian  Missions, 
etc.,  to  which  Virginia  and  Helen  listened  with  the  pro- 
foundest  interest. 

Lord  Cliffe  was  really  and  deeply  anxious  at  heart,  but 
he  was  too  well  bred  to  betray  his  uneasiness.  So  that,  not- 
withstanding a  few  hidden,  disagreeable  elements,  the  even- 
ing passed  very  agreeably.  Joseph  Carey  took  leave  at  a 
rather  late  hour.  Soon  after  his  departure,  Judge  Wash- 
ington, much  fatigued,  retired  to  his  chamber.  Virginia 
and  Helen  were  preparing  to  follow  his  example,  when 
Lord  Cliffe  detained  the  former,  by  saying, 

"One  moment,  Miss  Washington,  if  you  please,  and  if 
Miss  Hervey  will  excuse  us  ?" 

Helen  Hervey  bowed  and  left  the  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  her.  Lord  Cliffe  led  Virginia  to  the  sofa,  and  seat- 
ing himself  by  her  side,  and  holding  her  hand,  and  looking 


400  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

sadly,  tenderly,  half  reproachfully  in  her  face,  he  said,  in  a 
pensive  tone, 

"  Virginia,  dearest,  '  how  long  ?'  '  how  long  ?'  " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  full  of  deprecation  to  his  face. 

•"  Virginia,  how  long  will  you  keep  me  in  this  suspense  ?" 

"  May  God — may  you  forgive  me  the  weakness,  igno- 
rance and  sin  of  having  kept  you  in  suspense  so  long,  Clin- 
ton— I  will  do  so  no  longer — no,  not  a  day." 

"  You  will  set  my  heart  at  rest  at  once,  my  dear  Vir- 
ginia, by  naming  to-night,  the  day,  at  no  great  distance  I 
trust,  when  I  shall  call  you  my  wife — will  you,  Virginia  ?" 
he  said,  pressing  her  hand. 

She  withdrew  it,  and  said  kindly,  but  firmly, 

"  Lord  Cliffe,  you  have  widely  misconceived  my  mean- 
ing. Understand  it  now.  I  can  never  be  your  wife." 

"  Miss  Washington  ! !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  indig- 
nant astonishment ;  but  then  quickly  controlling  and  re- 
covering himself,  he  became  again  perfectly  cool,  calm,  self- 
possessed,  and  said,  with  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  "  For- 
give my  haste,  Virginia;  but  the  overwhelming  shock  of 
such  an  annunciation,  my  dear  love  I  Virginia — "  he  con- 
tinued, taking  her  hand  caressingly — "  Virginia,  you  do  not 
mean  what  you  say  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed  I  do,  Clinton  I" 

"  What !  you  can  never  be  my  wife  I" 

"  Never,  never,  Clinton." 

"  But  I  love  you  so,  dear  Virginia — will  you — can  you 
cast  away  all  that  afi'ection  ?" 

"  Love  me  1  Yes,  I  know  you  love  me,  Clinton,  but — 
oh,  dear !» 

"What!" 

"  Why,  yes,  you  like  me  after  a  fashion  as  I  perhaps  like 
you — but — " 

"  Well  ?» 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  401 

"  You  do  not  like  me  as  you  love  one  whom — did  'time, 
place,  and  circumstance  adhere' — you  would  prefer  to  marry 
rather  thar.  all  others  !" 

"  And  who  is  that,  Virginia?"  he  asked,  in  a  slightly  un- 
steady voi;e. 

"  I  do  not  know  her  name,  or  person,  or  abode,  but  she 
is  the  original  of  that  miniature  which  I  have  never  yet  be- 
held, but  which  I  have  seen  you  gaze  upon  with — oh  !  how 
how  many  strong,  various,  and  opposite  emotions  at  differ- 
ent times ! — love!  pride!  sorrow!  triumph!  remorse! — all 
save  auger,  hope,  or  fear ! — with  all  passions  that  refer  to 
the  past,  with  none  that  relate  to  the  future!  Oh,  yes,  that 
pictured  image  has  power  to  trouble  the  deep  waters  of 
your  soul  as  never  my  living  face  and  smile  and  touch  has 
been  able  to  do!  Ah!  does  your  countenance  change  so  at 
the  bare  allusion  to  one  so  passionately  beloved  ?  Yes, 
Clinton,  you  like  me,  I  know  !  Were  every  circumstance 
of  rank  and  wealth  satisfactorily  adjusted,  and  you  were 
married  to  the  unknown,  you  would  be  well  pleased  to  have 
me  also  in  your  sight,  by  your  fireside,  coming  and  going 
through  your  house.  You  would  be  happier  for  my  pres- 
ence, for  you  like  me  with  a  genial,  cousinly  regard — but! 
now  mark  me  !  Reverse  the  case.  Were  you  married  to 
me,  could  you  bear  the  presence  of  that  other  one  ?  Could 
you  endure  to  have  her  always  in  your  sight,  by  your  fire- 
side, coming  and  going  through  your  house  ?  Would  you 
be  any  happier  for  her  presence  ?  Ah  !  no !  no !  It 
would  destroy,  utterly  destroy  your  peace  !  Ah  !  no  !  for 
it  is  her  you  love  with  all  your  heart  and  soul !  Go.  Clin- 
ton, my  cousin,  leave  one  whom  you  do  not  love  best — and 
who  does  not  love  you  best — leave  me — impale  your  sinful 
pride,  and  marry  the  original  of  that  miniature,  who,  cer- 
tainly, if  not  beneath  your  love,  should  not  be  considered 
below  your  rank  !" 


402  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  That  is  the  special  pleading  of  youth,  romance,  and 
sentiment,  iny  love !  All  natural,  proper,  and  beautiful 
in  one  of  your  age  and  disposition.  But,  Virginia,  dear- 
est, you  must  permit  me  to  be  the  best  judge  of  the  woman 
best  suited  to  me  ;  and  so  I  claim  with  pride  and  joy  your 
promise  to  become  my  bride,"  he  said,  passing  his  arm 
around  her  waist,  and  attempting  to  draw  her  within  his 
embrace ;  but  with  a  gentle  dignity  she  withdrew,  and  re- 
plied : 

"Lord  Cliffe,  I  have  told  you  that  I  cannot  be  youi 
bride." 

"  But  your  promise,  Virginia !  You  gave  me  your  pro- 
mise." 

"  My  lord,  I  did  give  you  that  promise — weakly  and 
ignorantly  I  gave  it  to  you,  and  you  accepted  it ;  but  aj- 
terward  I  told  you  all  that  was  in  my  heart,  and  you  kindly 
and  graciously  released  me  from  my  vow,  promising  on 
your  own  part  never  to  demand  the  fulfillment  of  our  en- 
gagement, until  you  should  have  won  the  first  place  in  my 
humble  heart — you  have  never  done  so,  Lord  Cliffe  !  The 
place  is  filled,  but  not  by  you,  my  cousin  I  So  I  stand 
absolved  from  my  promise." 

"  Special  pleading  again,  my  dear  Virginia,  very  special. 
You  are  not  absolved !  Virginia,  in  admitting  my  ad- 
dresses, and,  by  so  doing,  encouraging  my  hopes,  you  have 
virtually  renewed  your  promise  every  day.  Come,  Vir- 
ginia, my  treasure  1  my  prize  I  1  cannot  so  readily  yield 
you  up  !  I  claim  your  promise  !" 

"  I  can  never,  never  be  your  wife,  Lord  Cliffe  I" 

"But  your  promise!" 

"  If  it  is  so— if  I  have  tacitly  renewed  that  promise — 
may  God  in-  his  infinite  mercy  forgive  me  for  the  great 
sin  of  having  made  it !  may  God  in  his  infinite  mercy  keep 
me  from  the  far  greater  sin  of  performing  it !" 


CROSS     PURPOSES.  403 

"Forgive  you  for  the  sin  of  making  a  promise — keep 
you  from  the  greater  sin  of  performing  it !  What  absurd 
sophistry  is  this,  my  Virginia  ?" 

"  No  sophistry,  but  the  Lord's  holy  truth  and  reason. 
God  forgive  me  for  getting  myself  in  a  false  position  1  God 
daliver  me  from  it !" 

"  Virginia — " 

"  Listen  to  me,  Lord  Cliffe  !  You  say  that  I  have  made 
you  a  promise  that  I  am  bound  to  fulfill  in  becoming  your 
wife ;  but,  Lord  Cliffe,  if  I  do  so — if  I  go  before  the  altar 
with  you,  I  shall  not  make  a  promise,  but  in  the  name  and 
in  the  sight  of  God  RECORD  A  vow  that  with  every  pulsa- 
tion of  my  heart,  and  every  aspiration  of  my  breath — every 
instant  of  my  life,  I  shall  break  with  a  breaking  heart  !  If 
1  have  tacitly,  as  you  say,  promised  to  be  your  wife,  while  I 
"fet  could  not  love  you,  may  the  Lord  forgive  me  my  sin, 
and  defend  me  from  putting  it  to  compound  interest." 

"  Your  aged  grandfather's  earnest  desire  for  this  union 
of  ours  I  is  that  nothing  to  you,  Miss  Washington  ?" 

"  I  opened  my  heart  to  my  dear  grandfather  this  morn- 
ing. I  have  the  fullest  confidence  in  Judge  Washington's 
wisdom  and  go'odness.  I  trust  in  the  Lord  that  his  wishes 
will  finally  be  one  with  mine." 

"  It  is  the  return  of  this  Joseph,  madam  !  this  nameless 
adventurer  !*' 

"  This  illustrious  philosopher,  politician,  missionary,  and 
philanthropist,  you  mean,"  said  Virginia. 

"  Enough  !  It  is  the  return  of  this  person  that  hns 
changed  all  your  purposes  !"  exclaimed  Lord  Cliffe,  rising 
ir.  anger,  and  pacing  the  room  with  rapid  strides.  "  It  is 
the  return  of  this  fellow  /" 

'•'  It  ts,"  said  Ginnie,  elevating  her  red  head  till  it  flashed 
as  brightly  as  her  flashing  eyes.  "  It  is — the  return  of 
Joseph  Carey — my  life-giver  !  my  crown  of  life  !  uiy  king — 


40*  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

whom,  were  he  to  call  me  to  it  now,  I  would  even  now  pass 
out  from  among  you  all,  and  follow  barefoot  through  the 
world,  even  unto  the  world's  extremity,  too  happy  to  walk 
in  his  shadow !  Lord  Cliffe,  I  hope  you  have  your  an- 
twer." 

Many  times,  with  rapid  strides,  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  room,  and  then  he  came  again  to  Virginia's  side,  took 
her  hand,  and  while  he  held  it,  said  : 

"  Virginia,  I  entreat  your  pardon  ;  extreme  disappoint- 
ment, extreme  chagrin,  has  caused  me  to  forget  myself — 
and  you! — pardon  me." 

"  Forgive  me,  Clinton,  if  all  these  many  months  I  have 
suffered  you  to  cherish  an  illusion.  I,  myself,  have  been 
under  an  illusion  in  regard  to  what  my  duty  was — one 
duty,  filial  obedience,  carried  to  a  blind  excess,  made  me 
forget  for  that  the  higher  duty  of  truth  to  God  and  man, 
made  me  dizzy  with  confusion,  reeled  me  to  the  verge  of  a 
great  moral  precipice — that  of  marrying  one  to  whom  every 
pulsation  of  my  heart  must  needs  be  false." 

"  But,  Virginia— " 

"Oh,  Clinton  !  I  know  now  that  I  am  doing  right !  I 
know,  as  well  as  if  an  angel  had  come  down  from  Heaven 
and  told  me,  that  I  am  doing  right  !  My  head  is  clear — 
my  heart  is  strong.  I  have  now  no  doubt  or  fear." 

At  this  moment  a  low  rap  at  the  door  was  answered  by 
Lord  Cliffe,  who  went  and  opened  it,  wondering  at  the  in- 
terruption at  this  unusual  hour.  It  was  one  of  the  waiters 
of  the  hotel,  who,  placing  a  note  in  his  hand,  said,  in 
apology  : 

"  The  messenger  who  brought  this,  sir,  urged  its  imme- 
diate importance." 

"Did  the  messenger  wait?"  inquired  Lord  Cliffe,  turning 
over  in  a  gingerly  manner  the  very  dirty  missive. 

"  No,  sir,  he  is  gone." 


CROSS     PUKPOSES.  405 

"  You  may  retire,"  and  the  waiter  left  the  room.  Lord 
Cliffe  went  to  the  lamp,  opened  and  read  the  note,  became 
excessively  agitated,  crashed  and  threw  the  paper  into  the 
grate,  and  saying  to  his  companion,  "  My  dear  Virginia, 
excuse  me,  I  am  called  out  on  business  of  vital  moment 
Retire,  my  dearest  girl.  You  will — you  must  reconsider 
your  rejection  of  me  yet ;  but  retire,  Virginia,  that  I  may 
leave  you,"  and  lighting  the  chamber  lamp,  he  rang  for  her 
maid,  who  came  to  attend  her  to  her  own  apartment. 

Two  hours  after  that,  when  the  hotel  was  closed,  a 
violent  ringing  of  the  principal  door-bell  aroused  the  watch- 
man, and  then  the  whole  household. 

Great  and  increasing  terror  and  dismay,  noise  and  con- 
fusion, spread  through  the  house. 

The  servants  and  officers  of  the  hotel,  the  landlord,  and 
even  the  guests,  and  finally  the  aged  Judge  Washington 
himself,  hastily  dressed,  and  hurried  to  the  scene  of  action, 
where  they  found  Lord  Cliffe  extended  lifeless  and  covered 
with  blood  upon  a  litter,  and  Joseph  Carey  in  the  hands 
of  the  police  1 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE     SICK     SOUL. 

"  Canst  thon  not  minister  to  the  mind  diseased, 
Plnck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  oat  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
Aud  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  fonl  bosom  of  the  perilous  stuff 
m  That  weighs  npon  the  heart?"— Sluikspeare. 

THE  medical  faculty,  the  hydropathists,  the  homceopath- 
ists — all  attempt  to  teach  us  physical  hygiene ;  an  eminent 


406  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

metaphysician  has  given  us  a  theory  of  mental  hygiene; 
there  is  also  a  moral  hygiene — this  last  requiring  more  skill 
in  its  management  than  either  of  the  former — a  moral  phar- 
macopoeia, dispensed  with  perfect  skill  only  by  the  great 
Physician  of  souls. 

Pure  precept  and  high  example  are  moral  stimulants  ; 
sympathy,  compassion,  affection,  are  moral  anodynes  ;  oppo- 
sition, persecution,  sorrow,  are  moral  tonics ;  the  right  of 
depravity  is  a  moral  emetic,  so  sickening  the  soul  with  evil 
as  to  excite  a  desire  to  throw  off  even  the  "  perilous  stuff' 
from  its  own  bosom. 

But  of  course  this  moral  dispensatory — like  the  medical 
pharmacopoeia — unskillfully  dispensed,  become  poisons  in- 
stead of  medicines — injure  or  kill,  instead  of  benefiting  and 
curing. 

And  as  all  spiritual  truths  and  material  facts  correspond, 
I  think  there  is  a  spiritual  homoeopathy  fur  a  n.ible  but 
erring  soul;  a  point  at  which  the  contact  of  a  depraved 
nature,  by  offending  and  arousing  all  its  dormant  good,  ex- 
cites an  energetic  and  healthful  reaction.  Thus  : 

I  have  heard  of  a  beautiful  coquette — a  vain  and  unthink- 
ing, but  an  intelligent  and  well-meaning  girl,  regenerated 
by  the  sight  of  a  fashionable  married  belle,  whose  immodest 
freed  OIL  of  manners  offended  her  purer  taste. 

I  have  heard  of  a  free  indulger  in  wine  reformed  by  the 
disgust  produced  at  the  sight  of  a  sot 

The  examples  of  this  truth  are  almost  infinite. 

But  the  instance  I  have  before  me  is  a  greater  and  more 
signal  cuse  :  When  a  "  high  mind  of  native  pride  and  force" 
has  fallen  under  the  dominion  of  an  evil  passion — or,  in 
other  words,  caught  a  moral  malignant  fever — and  is  in 
process  of  cure  by  the  intense  loathing  it  conceives  for  a 
depraved  nature,  to  the  constant  association  with  which  its 
own  malady  has  brought  it. 


THE     SICK     SOUL.  407 

And  such  was  the  case  with  Magdalene. 

More  than  twelve  months  have  elapsed  since  we  saw  her 
last.  During  all  this  time  she  has  followed  her  art  in  the 
city  of  Boston — haunted,  tortured,  nauseated  by  the  foul 
spirit  her  own  evil  passions  had  invoked — by  the  Italian, 
who  seldom  left  her  side.  Guileful,  cowardly,  and  treacher- 
ous, she  had  discovered  him  to  be.  From  the  profoundest 
depths  of  her  soul  she  abhorred  him  ;  and  this  abhorrence 
extended  to  every  thing  in  her  own  nature,  surroundings, 
and  purposes,  of  which  he  in  the  slightest  degree  partook. 
That  fascinating  histrionic  art  which  had  once  been  an  en- 
thusiasm with  her,  was  beginning  to  present  itself  to  her 
apprehension  in  the  repulsive  colors  of  vulgarity  and  ex- 
travagance, because  he,  with  his  loathsome  wickedness,  and 
still  more  loathsome  weakness,  was  intimately  connected 
with  it.  And  that  SACRIFICIAL  JUSTICE  which  was  the  in- 
sanity of  her  heart  and  the  object  of  her  life,  was  beginning 
to  take  the  hue  of  vengeance  and  assassination,  which  her 
whole  nature  renounced  and  revolted  from. 

And  yet,  and  yet  if  this  depraved  and  abhorred  wretch 
came  to  her  with  hands  crimsoned  with  crime,  and  claimed 
her  own  hand  as  his  stipulated  reward,  she  must  give  it  to 
him,  for  she  had  promised,  and  JUSTICE  was  Magdalene's 
regnant  thought. 

In  a  moment  of  extreme  madness,  when  the  sudden  sight 
of  the  traitor  had  aroused  her  malign  passions  into  reckless 
and  destructive  strength,  she  had  made  this  dark  contract 
with  him  ;  into  this  fearful  position  had  her  moral  insanity 
betrayed  her. 

Strong  as  her  physical  organization  was,  her  passions 
were  of  more  enduring  strength,  and  in  the  long-continued 
stiugji'le,  the  intense,  suppressed  excitement,  the  burning 
monomania  of  an  unsatisfied  JUSTICE,  as  she  called  it — ven- 
geance as  it  was — was  beginning  to  consume  even  Mag- 
dalene's highly-tempered  constitution. 


408  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Not  that  her  beauty  waned  as  yet — no,  kindled  by  the 
fire  in  heart  and  brain,  her  cheeks  and  Hps  glowed  with  the 
beautiful  brilliance,  and  her  eyes  blazed  with  the  intolerable 
light  and  splendor  of  that  incipient  madness,  that  restrained 
frenzy,  which,  checked  by  word  and  gesture,  lurked  and 
flashed  in  the  darkening  and  lightening  countenance. 

But  health  and  strength,  and  life  itself,  was  burning  out 
Her  nights  of  high  exhilaration  were  followed  by  mornings 
of  complete  prostration.  Thus  fevered  and  exhausted  by  the 
heat  and  glare  and  turmoil  around  her — 'burning  and  consum- 
ing, fainting  and  sinking — Magdalene,  indeed,  like  a  sorely 
wounded  and  hunted  lioness,  would  gladly  have  found  some 
cool,  fresh,  green  forest  glade  in  which  to  lie  down  and  die. 

In  this  state  of  mind  she  would  often  return  from  the 
theatre  after  a  night  of  triumph,  fevered  and  exhausted, 
and  throw  herself  upon  her  bed,  and  sink  into  a  deep  sleep, 
Often  then  her  mind,  in  dreams,  would  travel  back  to  the 
sweet  home  and  sweet  friends  of  her  childhood,  and  again 
she  would  be  sitting  in  some  pleasant  chair  in  the  cool 
piazza,  with  the  rolling  green  plains  and  the  distant  waters 
of  the  Chesapeake  spread  out  before  her — and  Ginnie  by 
her  side,  and  the  good  Judge  near — with  that  sweet  sense 
of  safety,  repose,  seclusion,  love  and  leisure  around  her ; 
and  she  would  awake  in  a  stifling  room,  with  a  weary  task 
and  a  revolting  public  exhibition  before  her,  and  instead 
of  Virginia  and  her  father,  the  repulsive  Italian.  As  she 
marked  his  sinister  countenance,  and  keen  bright  eye  that, 
underneath  its  heavy  lid,  glittered  like  a  half-sheathed  sti- 
etto,  she  dreaded  every  day  when  he  should  come  to  her 
and  claim  her  promise. 

She  never,  by  even  the  most  distant  allusion,  referred  to 
Ueir  fell  contract ;  for  the  very  memory  of  it  curdled  her 
blood  with  horror. 

Not  that  her  fierce  purpose  of   more  than  four  years' 


THE     SICK     SOUL.  409 

growth  was  beginning  to  decay;  no,  her  sense  ot  JUSTICE, 
by  nature  an  excess,  by  cultivation  a  monomania — justice 
without  mercy — demanded  an  atonement,  a  sacrifice,  a 
victim.  He  that  had  betrayed  her  unto  worse  than  death 
MUST  DIE.  So  her  JUSTICE  had  decreed. 

And  nothing  but  the  consummation  of  this  justice,  th\& 
revenge,  and  the  terrible  retributive  power  of  remorse, 
could  bring  her  to  sanity  upon  this  subject. 

But  her  justice,  in  the  hands  of  the  Italian,  took  the 
black  hue  of  murder. 

It  was  in  the  height  of  the  theatrical  season,  and  near 
Christmas,  when  one  morning  the  Italian  was  missing  from, 
his  post.  The  stage-manager  sent  to  his  lodgings,  but  he 
was  not  there.  Needing  his  services  very  much  in  the 
rehearsal  of  a  musical  passage,  he  was  sought  in  all  his 
usual  haunts,  without  being  found.  The  day  passed,  and 
he  had  not  made  his  appearance. 

The  next  day  his  continued  absence  occasioned  increas- 
ing surprise  and  conjecture.  When  a  week  had  passed 
away,  and  Bastiennelli  was  still  among  the  missing,  sur- 
prise was  at  its  height ;  but  when  a  fortnight  had  elapsed, 
and  no  news  of  him  had  been  received,  conjecture  itself  waa 
exhausted. 

His  mysterious  absence,  conjoined  with  the  circumstances 
of  that  dark  compact  between  him  and  herself,  filled  Mag- 
dalene with  a  dreary  uneasiness. 

This  uneasiness  became  a  terrible  anxiety,  when  one  day 
picking  up  an  old  Richmond  paper,  she  saw  announced  the 
arrival  of  Judge  Washington  and  family,  and  Lord  Cliffe, 
at  the  Richmond  Hotel.  The  paper  was  dated  about  ten 
days  prior  to  the  departure  of  the  Italian,  yet  she  instantly 
and  fearfully  connected  the  circumstances.  Nothing  but 
Magdalene's  unparalleled  self-command  could  have  enabled 
her  to  attend  the  rehearsal,  and  go  through  her  part  with 
intelligence 


410  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

She  instantly  resolved  to  set  out  for  Richmond  by  the 
very  next  stage  that  left  the  ensuing  morning.  Returning 
from  the  theatre,  heated  and  exhausted,  she  threw  herself 
upon  a  sofa,  where  she  had  not  laid  long  before  her  maid 
brought  her  the  morning  paper. 

She  did  not  feel  inclined  to  read,  yet  something,  she  knew 
not  what,  caused  her  to  open  the  paper,  and  cast  her  eyes 
over  its  columns. 

Suddenly,  with  a  cry  of  horror,  she  sprang  from  the 
couch — with  the  sharp  cry  and  the  fierce  spring  of  one 
shot  through  the  heart,  she  bounded  up — then  sunk  back, 
with  both  hands  pressed  to  her  forehead,  while  the  long, 
low  wail  of  a  lost  spirit  slowly  howled  from  her  lips. 

She  had  read  the  announcement  of  the  murder  of  Lord 
Cliffe ! 

Oh,  woman  of  "demoniac  firmness," — where  is  your 
demon-power  now  ?  Come,  let  us  reckon  together  !  You 
have  the  desire  of  your  heart !  The  one  great  object  of 
your  life  is  accomplished.  Your  unparalleled  wrong  is 
avenged.  Your  mortal  foe  is  slain.  Vengeance  is  com- 
plete !  Then  why  that  low,  long,  deep,  fearful  wail  ? 

Yengeance  is  complete. 

Yes,  so  complete  that  the  memory  of  the  wrong  is  blotted 
out,  and  anger  is  annihilated. 

She  could  remember  now  nothing  of  his  sin — his 
treachery — only  his  love — that  love  which  had  so  blessed 
the  brightest  period  of  her  girlhood's  years.  From  the 
moment  that  he  had  first  taken  her  to  his  bosom,  to  tiie 
hour  of  their  final  parting,  never  had  one  ungentle  word 
or  look  escaped  him — never  had  one  smallest  disagreement 
arisen  between  then? — he  had  been  self-devoted,  earnest, 
fervent,  solicitous  in  his  affection  and  care  of  her  \vhiu> 
they  lived  together — he  had  sought  to  be  so  after  they  had 
parted.  Was  there  not  something  good  and  gentle,  noble 


THE     SICK     SOUL  411 

fid  forebearing  in  that  erring  nature?  Might  she 
not  have  attempted  to  redeem  it  ?  But  no — not  one 
word  to  bring  him  to  better  thoughts  and  feelings  had  she 
spoken — not  one  appeal  to  his  better  nature  had  she  made 
— no  1  not  even  in  the  hour  of  their  parting,  when  she  had 
seen  him  softened,  saddened — how  distinctly  she  recalled 
the  scene  ! — not  one  word  had  she  spoken  ! — not  one  ap- 
pealing look  or  gesture  had  she  given  !  No  !  the  mighty 
power  of  influence  she  possessed  ! — the  mighty  power  of 
beauty  and  eloquence — which  should  have  been  used  to 
redeem  him,  and  to  save  herself — had  been  used  to  destroy 
both  !  With  the  fascinations  that  should  have  won  and 
saved  him,  she  had  bribed  atid  armed  a  dastardly  assassin  to 
destroy  him,  and  consume  her  with  horror  and  remorse. 

All  these  thoughts  and  feelings  whirled  into  her  mind  and 
heart  with  tempestuous  rapidity — but  once  there  remained 
fixed  as  forever — while  she  remained  with  her  hands  pressed 
upon  her  brow,  unconscious  of  the  suffocating  distension  and 
fiery  burning  of  her  chest  and  throat — while  she  lay  with  the 
low  continuous  wail  issuing  from  her  still  lips. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  Italian 
burst  into  the  room,  dusty,  travel-stained,  heated,  haggard  ; 
and  with  blood-shot  eyes  and  trembling  frame  threw  himself 
upon  his  knees  before  her — seized  her  hands,  and  said — 

"  Signora  !  your  commands  are  obeyed  !  My  part  of 
our  contract  is  fulfilled  I  Your  mortal  foe  is  dead  by  my 
hand  !  I  claim  my  reward  !  Signora  !  there  is  no  time — 
no  1  not  a  moment  to  be  lost !  every  instant  I  remain  here 
is  fraught  with  imminent  danger  1  Come !  gather  your 
money  and  jewels  together !  A  carriage  waits  below  !  a  ship 
sails  for  Europe  with  the  first  tide  to-morrow  morning! 
Unstcn  !  hasten  !  We  will  go  instantly  out  to  some  village 
nnd  be  married,  and  at  nightfall  embark  !  Hasten.  Signora! 
hasten  !"  he  said,  and  pulling  her  bands,  raised  her. 


412  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Did  she  lose  her  senses  straightway  ?  Did  she  go  mad  ? 
Did  she  rave  and  tear  her  hair  ?  No  !  She  had  been  mad 
before  !  and  that  horror  which  might  have  driven  a  sane 
person  mad  —  brought  the  mad  one  to  perfect  sanity.  She 
was  calm,  self-conscious,  self-possessed,  while  she  stood 
sternly  confronting  him. 

"  The  price  of  blood  ?  You  want  the  price  of  blood  ? 
You  shall  have  it  1" 

"  Signora  I"  exclaimed  the  Italian,  in  doubt. 

"  Yes  1  I  will  keep  my  promise  to  the  very  letter  of  the 
bond  !  I  will  place  my  hand  in  yours,  stained  as  it  is  with 
crime!  I  will  go  to  the  altar  with  you  !  I  will  become  your 
wife  !  The  sooner  the  better  1  This  day  !  this  hour  1  this 
very  instant  1  because  I  have  promised  to  do  so,  and  truth 
and  justice  is  my  one  predominant  thought  !  But,  mark 
you  1  By  the  eternal  justice  of  God  1  —  JUSTICE  shall  have 
her  FULL  COURSE  !  JUSTICE  shall  be  carried  out  to 
EXTREMITY  !  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  altar  this  hour  if 
you  will  !  —  but,  listen  !  from  the  altar  I  go  to  the  court- 
house and  denounce  you  us  the  murderer  of  Lord  Cliffe, 
and  myself  as  your  accomplice  1  Ha,  sir  I  You  thought  to 
find  some  short-coming  —  some  incompletion  in  my  justice, 
did  you  ?  What  think  you  now  of  retributive  justice  ?" 

The  Italian  started  violently  —  gazed  on  her  —  appalled 
at  the  awful  majesty  of  her  sternly  beautiful  countenance  ! 
He  felt  that  she  would  carry  out  to  the  uttermost  that  which 
she  had  sworn  to  do  !  He  gazed  at  her  struck  statue-still 
with  astonishment,  wonder,  and  terror  for  awhile  —  then  a 
smile  of  demoniac  triumph  flashed  across  his  countenance, 
and  he  exclaimed, 

"  Be  it  so  !  I  exact  your  promise  !  Be  my  wife  for  one 
hour,  and  the  next  deliver  me  up  to  the  scaffold  if  you 


But  even  while  the  demon  smile  vet  distorted  his  coun- 


THE     SICK     SOUL.  413 

tenauce,  as  he  glared  upon  her,  her  countenance  had  some- 
what changed ;  her  face,  that  a  moment  before  had  been 
highly  flushed,  was  now  deadly  pale — a  grayness  like  the 
shadow  of  death  crept  slowly  across  it — her  eye  filmed 
over — her  tall  form  rocked,  as  a  tower  about  to  fall,  an 
instant — then  suddenly  pressing  her  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth,  she  fell  forward,  and  was  caught  in  the  arms  of  the 
Italian,  while  the  handkerchief  dropped  saturated  with  the 
blood  that  oozed  from  her  lips. 

When  Magdalene  first  recovered  her  sensibility  the 
feebleness  of  infancy,  mental  and  physical,  was  upon  her. 

She  found  herself  lying  on  a  bed  in  a  dark  and  silent 
room,  without  the  strength  to  raise  her  hand  or  murmur  a 
word. 

SOCHI  the  silence  was  softly  broken  by  the  voices  of  two 
women  conversing  in  a  very  low  tone,  that  was  nevertheless 
distinctly  audible  to  her  morbidly  acute  ears — and  which 
recalled  her  to  the  full  and  terrible  recollection  of  the  past. 

They  were  talking  of  the  late  murder. 

Her  attention  became  riveted — her  senses  were  very 
sharp,  her  brain  very  clear,  perhaps  from  the  great  hemor- 
rhage— and  so  she  heard  distinctly,  and  understood  fully 
that — oh  !  last  of  griefs — that  Joseph  Carey  had  been  ar- 
rested and  committed  to  prison,  under  the  strongest  circum- 
stantial evidences.  What  were  those  evidences  ?  She 
listened  intently,  and  heard  :  Joseph  Carey  had  loved  a 
young  lady  who  returned  his  affection,  but  who  was  engaged 
to  Lord  Cliffe.  Joseph  Carey  had  left  the  hotel  at  half- 
past  eleven  o'clock.  Lord  Cliffe  had  been  called  out  by  a 
note,  and  had  left  the  house  at  twelve  o'clock.  At  about 
one  o'clock,  a  cry  of  murder  had  raised  the  watch,  who,  run- 
ning  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  came  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  where  they  found  Lord  Cliffe  lifeless  and  weltering  in 


414  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

his  blood,  and  Joseph  Carey  standing  over  him  with  a  drawn 
and  bloody  knife,  whose  blade  precisely  filled  the  wound — 
and  upon  these  circumstantial  evidences,  Joseph  Carey  had 
been  committed  to  prison  to  await  his  trial  for  the  murder 
of  Lord  Cliffe  I 

When  Magdalene  heard  this,  she  started  and  tried  to 
speak — but  she  found  that  her  voice  was  powerless,  while  at 
the  effort  her  hemorrhage  broke  out  afresh.  The  two  old 
women  hearing  the  motion,  one  of  them  came  to  her  bed- 
side, and  seeing  what  had  happened,  sent  the  other  for  the 
physician,  who  instantly  obeyed  the  summons.  Remedies 
were  applied,  and  she  was  again  relieved. 

Relieved  ?  With  the  horrible  weight  of  still  accumulat- 
ing guilt  upon  her  burdened  soul.  Relieved  ?  Hearing 
that  for  her  crime  an  innocent  man  was  now  in  prison,  and 
for  her  crime  he  might  soon  die  upon  the  scaffold  1  while  she, 
agonized  with  remorse,  agonized  with  the  intense  yet  vain 
desire  to  speak  and  clear  him — lay  without  the  power  of 
speech  or  motion,  feeble,  prostrated,  powerless  in  the  grip 
of  a  terrible  remorse,  with  only  her  brain  clear,  clear  as 
crystal,  without  a  softening  mist  between  her  consciousness 
and  her  crime,  and  the  stupendous  accumulation  of  guilt,  in 
its  consequences  !  To  have  a  mind  so  clear  and  bright,  and 
so  distinctly  cognizant  of  her  awful  crime,  and  the  fearful 
peril  in  which  it  had  placed  another  !  and  to  have  a  heart  so 
strained  upon  the  rack  of  conscience,  and  to  know  that 
events  were  swiftly  marching  on  to  their  dread  consumma- 
tion !  and  to  be  too  feeble  to  utter  a  single  articulate  sound, 
or  raise  a  prayer  for  justice  !  Oh  I  for  strength  of  voice  to 
utter  a  few  short  words.  Oh  I  for  strength  of  hand  to  hold 
a  |>en  and  trace  one  little  sentence!  Vain  wish!  vainer 
fff'Tt  !  The  once  strong,  beautiful,  and  graceful  arms  and 
liiinds.  so  significant  and  speaking  in  motion  and  in  gesture, 
now  lay  stretched  down  each  side  her  form  powerless  to  do 


THE     SICK     SOUL.  415 

her  bidding.  The  musical  and  eloquent  tongue  lay  motion 
less  and  almost  dead  within  her  cold  lips.  The  strong  phy- 
sical constitution  is  broken  and  crushed  down  now,  as  noth- 
ing but  REMORSE  could  have  broken  and  crushed  it !  The 
nearly  omnipotent  will  is  impotent  now !  Sampson  is 
chained  by  single  hairs  !  The  potent  spirit  is  bound  by  the 
impotency  of  its  frame.  The  mighty  spirit  is  mighty  only 
in  its  sufferings  !  "  Oh,  God  1  oh,  God  !  not  pardon,  not 
pardon  !  but  power  to  save  the  innocent,  and  time  to  suffer 
and  to  expiate  1"  was  the  inarticulate  cry  of  her  heart.  And 
when  this  excruciating  anguish  of  spirit  wrung  from  her  tor- 
tured bosom  a  low  wail,  some  anodyne  or  opiate  would  be 
placed  at  her  lips,  to  relieve  physical  pain,  or  to  procure 
sleep. 

Physical  pain  ? 

She  did  not  feel  it  I 

Sleep  ? 

What  was  her  sleep,  but  a  fearful  lapse  of  her  soul  into 
hell! 

Her  remorse  I  Oh,  words  are  incapable  as  she  was  to  ex- 
press it  !  But  there  SHE  lay,  the  strong,  the  great,  the 
might}7,  the  woman  of  unparalleled  physical  power,  whose 
nerves  of  steel  and  muscles  of  iron  had  never  been  weakened 
by  even  that  extremity  of  anguish  and  despair,  which  had 
for  years  subverted  her  reason  and  left  her  the  slave  of  a  fell 
monomania — there  SHE  lay  REVOLUTIONIZED  I 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE     COMFORTER. 

Come  now  and  let  ns  reason  together,  saith  the  Lc  rd  ; 
Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet, 
They  shall  be  white  as  snow  ; 
Though  they  be  red  like  crimson, 
They  shall  be  as  wool." — Isaiah. 

MAGDALENE  perceived  that  only  when  her  attendants  sup- 
posed her  to  be  in  a  deep  sleep,  would  they  indulge  in  con- 
versation, which,  though  carried  on  in  the  lowest  possible 
tone,  was  always  distinctly  audible  to  her  morbidly  acute 
ears.  Now  extremely  anxious  to  hear  the  progress  of 
events,  she  would  often  close  her  eyes  and  affect  to  sleep, 
that  she  might  gather  something  from  their  talk.  Nothing 
more,  however,  bearing  even  remotely  upon  the  subject  of 
her  thoughts,  did  she  hear,  until  one  morning : — While 
lying  still,  with  closed  eyes,  she  heard  her  nurse  enter  the 
room,  followed  by  some  one,  whose  light,  soft  foot-fall  did 
not  belong  to  the  attendant  physician.  Her  nurse  ap- 
proached the  bedside,  bent  over  her,  and  said,  as  in  reply  to 
some  previous  question, 

"Yes,  sir,  you  may  come  and  see  her  now  with  safety — 
she  is  in  one  of  her  deep  sleeps." 

And  the  nurse  receded  from  the  bed,  and  the  light,  soft 
steps  approached,  and  she  heard  a  deep  sigh  from  the  lips 
bent  over  her  brow  and  cheek,  and  she  heard  the  low- 
breathed  music  of  the  scarcely-articulated  words, 

"  I  have  found  thee  at  last,  my  lost  Magdalene  !     And 
never  will  I  leave  thee,  until  thou  sendest  me  away.     I  will 
win  thee  yet,  my  soul's  own  Magdalene." 
(416) 


THE     COMFORTER.  417 

And  she  recognized  Theodore  Hervey.  Then  she  heard 
the  physician  enter  the  chamber,  make  his  usual  inquiries 
of  the  nurse,  and  receive  her  erroneous  reply  that  the  pa- 
tient was  sleeping.  Then  she  heard  Theodore  Hervey  step 
away  from  the  bedside,  and  present  himself,  by  name,  tu 
the  physician,  and  soon  her  attention  becamed  riveted  by 
the  following  conversation  between  them  : 

"  You  seem  to  be  an  intimate  friend  of  my  patient,  sir  ?" 

"  I  have  been  the  friend  of  the  lady,  from  the  earliest  in- 
fancy, up  to  maturity.  Of  late  years,  we  have  been  severed 
by  the  very  opposite  natures  of  our  respective  professions. 
We  had,  in  fact,  lost  sight  of  each  other  altogether,  until 
yesterday,  having  come  to  the  city  on  a  short  visit,  I  en- 
tered a  gallery  of  art,  saw  and  recognized  her  portrait,  and 
discovered  her  abode.  What  is  the  disease  of  your  patient, 
and  do  you  consider  her  case  very  serious  ?" 

"  It  is  serious,  sir.  There  are  peculiar  circumstances 
connected  with  her  illness,  and  these  circumstances  render 
her  case  very  complicated  and  difficult.  Her  illness  is  the 
effect  of  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel,  caused  by  reading 
or  hearing  suddenly,  that  first  most  outrageously  exagger- 
ated account  of  the  midnight  assault  upon  Lord  Cliffe,  in 
Richmond,  whom  we  presume  to  be  a  near  friend  or  rela- 
tive of  the  lady,  from  the  fact  of  the  terrible  effect  the  re- 
port of  his  murder  produced  upon  her." 

"  He  was  an  intimate  friend  himself,  and,  moreover,  a 
near  relative  of  a  very  beloved  companion  of  hers." 

"Ah!  well — following  this  first  account  of  the  murder, 
came  another  rumor,  that  -Mr.  Carey,  the  celebrated  mis- 
sionary, had  been  arrested  under  strong  circumstantial  evi- 
dence— this  reached  the  ears  of  my  patient  through  the 
thoughtless  gabble  of  two  old  women,  and  threw  her  into 
such  a  state  of  excitement,  as  to  cause  an  instant  and  nearly 
fatal  return  of  the  hemorrhage.  She  is  very  much  pros- 


4:18  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

trated  now,  but  free  from  fever,  or  any  local  inflammation. 
In  a  few  days — if  she  does  not  sink,  as  we  fear  may  be  the 
case — we  may  be  able,  cautiously  and  gradually — for  the 
least  excitement,  of  whatever  kind,  might  be  instanilv  fatal 
to  her — we  may,  I  say,  be  able,  cautiously  and  gradually,  to 
andeceive  her,  in  regard  to  this  false  newspaper  report  of 
the  murder  of  Lord  Cliffe,  and  the  arrest  of  Mr.  Carey." 

"  False  !"  "  False  !"  Had  Magdalene  heard  aright  ? 
She  uttered  a  low,  inarticulate  cry  of  joy,  which  startled  the 
physician  and  the  visitor,  and  instantly  arrested  their  con- 
versation. The  doctor  stepped  to  the  bedside.  Magda- 
lene's hollow  eyes  were  radiant  with  the  light  of  seraphic 
gratitude  and  joy,  and  her  cheeks  and  lips  were  crimsoned 
with  excitement;  but  between  the  beautiful  lips  already  the 
scarlet  foam  revealed  where  the  life-blood  had  again  broken 
its  bounds.  The  physician  promptly  applied  the  propel 
remedies,  the  nearly  fatal  hemorrhage  was  arrested,  and  the 
patient,  under  the  influence  of  a  powerful  opiate,  sank  into 
a  profound  sleep.  Theodore  Hervey,  in  right  of  his  cloth, 
and  his  old  friendship,  took  the  watcher's  station  by  her 
side,  while  the  doctor  gave  his  orders  for  the  day  to  the 
nurse,  and  retired.  Theodore  Hervey  remained  seated,  by 
the  head  of  the  bed,  for  three  hours,  watching  the  face  of 
the  deep  sleeper.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  which  brought 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  seeing  her  stir,  as  though  about 
to  awake,  he  silently  and  cautiously  withdrew  from  his 
post,  and  from  the  room.  Magdalene  awoke,  weaker  than 
ever  before — from  the  increased  loss  of  blood — but  with  her 
brain  clear  as  ever,  and  with  a  distinct  memory  of  all  that 
had  transpired — and,  oh  !  words  are  impotent  to  describe 
the  deep,  intense  gratitude,  that  moved  her  whole  soul  to 
God.  Delivered  from  blood-guiltiness  !  Her  life  saved 
from  death  !  Her  soul  redeemed  from  perdition  !  And, 
oh !  above  all,  he,  whom — now  that  her  hatred  and  revenge 


THE     COMFORTEK.  419 

nad  been  annihilated — she  would  almost  peril  that  soul  to 
save — alive  and  possibly  well.  Yes,  her  deep  joy  and  grati- 
itide  were  great  beyond  conception,  and  must  have  been 
fatal  in  their  first  excess,  but  for  one  drawback,  one  sad 
qualification — he  had  been  attacked,  and  at  her  instigation. 
If  he  had  escaped  death,  it  was  not  by  her  interference  that 
he  escaped,  and — he  must  have  been  wounded — might  have 
been  dangerously  wounded,  and  even  now  be  very  ill. 
This  reflection,  when  she  awoke,  sobered  the  first  exultant 
joy  of  her  soul  into  a  deep  and  earnest  gratitude  for  his 
delivery  from  death— for  her  delivery  from  great  crime — 
leaving  her  the  fervent  hope  that  all  might  yet  be  well  with 
him — though,  for  herself,  she  felt  that  all  life's  pleasures 
must  be  over. 

At  the  physician's  next  visit  he  pronounced  her  much 
better  than  she  had  ever  been  since  her  first  attack,  and 
meeting  Mr.  Hervey  down-stairs,  informed  him  that  the 
next  day  he  might  be  introduced  to  her — adding, 

"  I  suspect,  from  her  improved  state  this  morning,  and, 
above  all,  from  the  calm  expression  of  her  countenance, 
that  when  we  believed  her  to  have  been  sleeping,  she  over- 
heard our  conversation,  and  obtained,  without  our  intending 
it,  that  very  piece  of  news  which  we  were  so  much  afraid  of 
imparting  lest  it  should,  as  it  did,  bring  on  a  return  of  the 
hemorrhage.  Well,  she  has  survived  it,  and  now,  with  her 
heart  relieved,  she  will  get  well.  What  a  wonderful  con- 
stitution she  has  !  And  what  a  strength  of  attachment  to 
one  who  was  only  her  friend,  cousin  I  There  must  have 
been  more  in  it  than  that." 

The  next  day  Theodore  Hervey  was  introduced  at  her 
bedside,  when  she  was  known  to  be  awake,  and  though  she 
could  not  move  or  speak,  she  looked  at  him,  and  smiled  a 
welcome  full  of  affection.  He  sat  down  and  took  her  wasted 
hand,  and  quietly  and  cautiously  introducing  a  subject  of 


420  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

which  be  knew  her  thoughts  were  full,  yet  which  would  not 
agitate  her  so  much  as  the  other  topic  did,  he  spoke  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  her  unwavering  affection,  and  her  unceasing  de- 
sire to  be  reunited  to  her  sister — and  of  the  letter  entrusted 
to  himself,  which,  he  said,  he  would  deliver  when  she  should 
be  able  to  read  or  to  hear  it  read.  Then  he  told  her  of 
Judge  Washington,  whose  confidence  in  his  adopted  daugh- 
ter remained  undiminished,  and  who  longed  to  receive  her 
again.  Theodore  paused  now,  and  continued  holding  her 
hand  and  watching  the  changing  expression  of  her  face. 
Magdalene  gazed  at  him  with  such  an  intensity  of  expres- 
sion in  her  deep,  bright,  hollow  eyes,  that  he  understood 
her  question,  and  bowing  his  head  in  compliance,  got  up 
and  requested  the  nurse  to  leave  him  alone  with  her  patient 
a  few  minutes,  returned  to  his  seat  by  the  head  of  the  bed, 
took  her  hand  again,  and  said,  gently  : 

"  Magdalene,  can  you  bear  to  hear  the  true  account  of 
that  assault,  whose  false  report  gave  you  so  much  trouble  ?" 

A  slight  motion  in  affirmation,  and  a  look  so  calm  re- 
plied to  him,  that  he  went  on. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Magdalene,  as  much  as  I  know  from  the 
corrected  newspaper  reports,  and  from  a  letter  from  my 
sister.  There  was  a  man  boarding  at  the  same  house,  of 
the  name  of  Bastiennelli,  who,  it  seems,  was  in  the  confi- 
dence of  the  publisher  of  the  Journal — the  Richmond  paper 
in  which  the  false  report  originated.  In  the  first  dismay 
and  confusion  that  prevailed  —  when  the  supposed  dead 
body  of  Lord  Cliffe  was  brought  into  the  house,  and  while 
his  lordship  was  yet  insensible,  and  Mr.  Carey  yet  in  the 
hands  of  the  police,  this  Italian  went  off  to  the  Journal  of- 
fice, which,  late  as  the  hour  was,  was  still  open,  and  had 
the  paragraph  inserted  with  all  its  falsehood  and  exaggera- 
tion that  has  been  so  nearly  fatal  to  you,  Magdalene.  The 
next  day,  of  course,  the  report  was  contradicted,  but  not  in 


THE     COMFORTER.  4:21 

time  to  save  you  all  that  you  have  suffered,  Magdalene. 
Lord  Cliffe's  wounds  were  very  slight.  As  soon  as  he  re- 
covered from  the  insensibility,  caused  by  a  heavy  blow  on 
the  back  of  his  head  received  in  falling,  an  investigation 
ensued,  which  immediately  cleared  Joseph  Carey.  Lord 
Cliffe  was  confined  to  his  sofa  for  a  few  days,  but  is  now 
perfectly  well,  and  remains  with  the  Judge  and  his  family, 
who  have  removed  to  their  town  house  for  the  winter.  My 
sister  is  with  them.  Dear  Magdalene,  you  have  now  heard 
all  that  is  needed  to  set  your  mind  at  rest,  and  you  must 
listen  no  more  just  now,  but  compose  yourself  to  sleep." 

But  again  the  intense  look  and  a  slight  motion  of  the  lips 
drew  Theodore's  attention ;  he  stooped  down  and  caught 
the  breathed  word, 

"The  assassin  ?" 

"  Has  not  yet  been  arrested,"  replied  Theodore. 

Again  the  intense  look  and  the  feebly-moving  lips  drew 
his  ear  down  to  catch  her  whisper ;  "  BastienneUi"  was  the 
only  word  he  caught,  and  misunderstanding  the  purport  of 
that,  he  replied : 

"  The  man  who  originated  the  false  report  ? — he  had 
committed  a  large  robbery  the  very  night  he  left  Rich- 
mond, and  has  since  eluded  the  police,  and  effected  his 
escape  to  Europe.  No  one  can  guess  the  motive  for  his 
act," 

Finding  it  impossible  to  make  him  understand  her  self- 
accusation,  and  completely  exhausted  by  her  efforts,  Mag- 
dalene closed  her  eyes,  as  a  signal  for  him  to  depart. 

He  left  her,  and  she  remained  with  her  eyes  closed  to 
shut  out  all  external  objects,  while  her  soul  communed  with 
itself,  and  was  still.  Exhausted  as  were  her  other  physical 
powers,  her  brain  was  preternatii  rally  active. 

She  reviewed  her  whole  life  from  earliest  infancy  to  the 
present  hour ;  and  how  had  she  passed  it,  and  what  had  she 
26 


•422  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

been  ?  Her  childhood,  it  is  true,  furnished  her  with  little 
for  self-reproach — lonely,  strong  and  self-reliant,  her  strength 
had  been  used  to  succor  and  protect  all  things  weaker  than 
herself — and  much  for  self-palliation  ;  her  stern  training  had 
strengthened  that  very  spirit  of  justice  without  mercy,  which 
passion  had  kindled  to  frenzy.  But  self-justification  was 
not  her  thought  or  purpose  now.  So,  quickly  passing  the 
memories  of  her  childhood's  years,  she  dwelt  upon  those  of 
her  youth  and  womanhood — when,  gifted  with  more  than 
woman's  fortitude  and  endurance,  and  more  than  man's 
courage  and  energy,  despising  the  sweet  seclusion  of  her 
rural  home,  and  the  quiet  routine  of  domestic  life,  and 
spurning  the  influence  of  father  and  sister,  whose  gentleness 
and  refinement  were  no  match  for  her  pride  and  strength, 
and  regardless  of  what  their  love  might  suffer — in  the  mad 
arrogance  of  power,  she  had  left  them,  to  carve  out  for  her- 
self an  independent  path  through  life.  Here  a  new  light 
glimmered  on  her  soul,  revealing  to  her  how  really  blind 
and  inconsistent  had  been  her  merely  human  sense  of  justice 
— that  justice  for  which  she  had  so  highly  valued  herself. 
How  just,  for  instance — she  inquired  with  a  mournful  irony 
— how  just  it  was  to  repay  all  their  love,  sympathy,  care, 
and  protection  for  so  many  years  with  pride,  coldness,  in- 
gratitude, and  desertion,  inflicting  years  of  grief  and  anx- 
iety upon  them  !  What  a  return  to  make  them  !  How 
JUST  !  Never  had  Magdalene's  self-esteem  shrunk  as  it  did 
before  this  little  ray  of  light.  And  then,  to  break  down 
her  stubborn  heart  with  repentance  and  sorrowful  gnititude, 
came  their  message — the  father's  message,  which  bade  his 
adopted  daughter  to  come  home,  and  lay  her  wild,  hot  head 
upon  his  bosom  for  repose  and  coolness  ;  and  the  sister's 
message,  that  said  her  heart  still  wailed  for  her  sister's  re- 
turn, and  told  her  of  that  sweet  rural  home,  always  kept  in 
readiness  for  her.  At  any  time  she  might  have  found  whal 


THE     COMFORTER.  423 

she  had  so  much  needed,  solitude,  coolness,  repose.  Her 
"sweet  rural  home"  had  been  open  to  her,  as  the  bosom  of 
her  heavenly  Father  had  been,  all  along. 

But  her  sou!  traveled  on  to  the  thought  of  one  to  whom, 
more  than  all  others,  she  had  wished  to  be  very  just — Lord 
Clilfe.  Had  she  not  loved  him  with  all  the  great  strength 
of  her  strong  nature  ?  With  a  passioi  as  fierce  and  more 
selfish  than  his  own  ?  Had  she  not,  in  her  way,  used  all 
her  fascinations  to  win  him  ?  Had  she  not,  in  her  way, 
done  more  than  half  the  "  love-making"  ?  Was  she  not 
more  than  half  responsible  for  all  the  evil  that  had  ensued  ? 
Yes,  yes,  her  awakened  soul  replied  and  shuddered.  And 
oh !  the  thought  came  again,  and  still  came — that  of  all 
those  mighty  charms  that  had  been  used  to  win  the  love 
her  soul  craved  for  its  selfish  satisfaction,  not  one  spell  had 
been  essayed  to  redeem  him  when  he  wandered.  No  !  but 
for  the  satisfaction  of  another  selfish  and  demoniac  passion, 
had  been  used  for  his  destruction — his  destruction  provi- 
dentially averted.  She  shivered  to  think  of  that.  Then  a 
frantic  desire  flashed  across  her. brain  an  instant  and  van- 
ished, for  she  felt  that  its  gratification  was  impossible.  It 
was  this — for  the  opportunity,  not  of  winning  back  his 
love — too  much  had  come  and  gone  between  them  for  that 
even  to  occur  to  her  mind — but  of  throwing  herself  upon 
his  bosom,  and  weeping  out  all  the  remorseful  tenderness 
of  her  subdued  soul. 

Finally,  clasping,  "appraising"  her  whole  life — what  had 
ehe  been  ?  With  all  her  wonderful  endowments,  what  had 
she  been  ?  Only  at  best,  a  superb  egotist.  What  had  she 
done  for  God  or  man  ?  Nothing  1  Her  whole  nature  and 
life  had  been  self — self,  and  still  self. 

But  it  would  take  volumes  to  transcribe  all  that  passed 
in  an  hour's  time  through  that  awakened  soul — that  for 
hours,  and  days,  and  weeks,  toiled  on  out  of  the  deep  pit 


4H  THE      TWO     SISTERS. 

of  «*in  and  remorse,  and  through  darkness,  chaos,  error,  and 
donbt,  toward  the  light. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Hervey  came  again  and  spent  the  fore 
noon  with  her.  He  brought  the  letter  of  Virginia  with 
him,  and  with  a  sign  she  expressed  her  wish  that  he  should 
read  it.  A  great  deal  of  it  had  been  given  Magdalene  in 
a  message.  Now  she  heard  it  all — every  affectionate  and 
earnest  thought  and  feeling,  in  Virginia's  own  simple  and 
touching  style — and  for  the  first  time  tears  overflowed  her 
eyes  and  relieved  her  sorely  burdened  heart.  The  love  and 
mercy  shown  by  her  fellow-beings  had  revealed  to  her  soul 
the  infinite  love  and  mercy  of  her  heavenly  Father.  For- 
getful that  any  eye  but  that  of  God  was  upon  her,  she  lifted 
her  eyes  and  moved  her  lips  in  prayer.  But  Theodore  saw 
the  emotion  with  a  gratitude  scarcely  less  than  her  own. 

I  am  making  this  too  long,  too  tedious. 

Who  cannot  imagine  how,  with  Magdalene's  awakened 
conscience,  and  Hervey's  piety,  the  time,  for  days  and 
weeks  passed  ?  The  daily  reading  of  God's  blessed  word, 
the  earnest  prayers  and  fervent  thanksgivings,  and  the  sweet 
communion  of  soul  with  soul  ? 

It  is  true  that  she  could  not  speak  as  yet — earnest  gazes, 
tears,  smiles,  pressures  of  the  hand,  upraised  glances,  were 
the  only  means  of  expression  left  to  her — but  these  were 
most  eloquent,  even  in  their  incompletion. 

Daily  she  gained  strength,  and  daily  the  countenance, 
voice,  and  manner  of  Hervey  became  more  cheerful.  You 
would  have  said  that  some  bright,  long-looked  for  light  was 
beginning  to  dawn  on  the  night  of  his  existence,  and  that 
he  watched  in  joyous  expectation  of  the  full  and  glorious 
duy 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

REMORSE. 

"  High  miuds  of  native  pride  and  forcfe, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs,  remorse." — Marmion. 

WHETHER  the  Italian  had  played  a  deep  game  from  first 
to  last — whether  he  had  really  gone  to  Richmond  with  any 
hostile  purpose  toward  Lord  Cliffe,  or  whether  his  master, 
the  fiend,  favored  him  with  accident,  is  not  certainly  known. 
All  that  was  ever  ascertained  is  the  fact  that  among  the 
very  first  who  hastened  to  the  spot  of  the  catastrophe  at 
the  cry  of  murder  upon  the  night  Lord  Cliffe  was  assaulted, 
was  Bastiennelli,  who,  having  seen  the  fallen  man  raised 
and  carried  into  the  hotel,  hastened  to  the  office  of  the 
Journal,  where,  late  at  night,  or  rather  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, as  it  was,  the  printers  were  yet  at  work  getting  up  the 
day's  paper,  and  there  hastily  dashed  off  that  paragraph, 
grossly  exaggerating  the  assault,  which  was  accepted  in 
confidence,  and  printed  and  circulated,  and  afterward 
copied,  in  good  faith,  throughout  the  country,  and  the 
sight  of  which  had  been  so  nearly  fatal  to  Magdalene. 
Two  hours  after  this,  Bastiennelli  threw  himself  into  the 
mail  stage  for  Baltimore,  on  his  way  to  Boston,  where  he 
arrived  simultaneously  with  the  mail  containing  the  Rich- 
mond Journal,  giving  the  false  account  of  the  assault. 
Taking  care,  for  his  own  private  purposes,  that  Magdalene 
should  get  a  sight  of  this  paper  just  previous  to  his  appear- 
ing before  her,  he  presented  himself  to  her  and  played  out 
the  little  drama  described  in  a  former  chapter,  the  de- 


426  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

nouement  of  which  formed  no  part  of  his  plot.  When 
Magdalene  had  fallen,  stricken  down  by  the  terrible 
strength  of  remorse,  and  he  had  seen  her  utter  incapability 
of  accompanying  him,  he  lost  no  time  in  escaping  on  board 
of  the  first  ship  bound  for  Europe.  And  this  was  the  last 
that  was  heard  of  him.  Subsequent  developments  re- 
vealed, that  to  secure  Magdalene,  he  wished  to  avail 
himself  of  a  crime  that  he  had  never  even  attempted  to 
commit. 

Enough  of  him. 

Let  us  now  return  to  Lord  Cliffe,  and  the  hour  at  which 
he  was  borne  lifeless  into  th*e  great  hall  of  the  hotel. 

When  Judge  Washington  arrived  upon  the  scene  of 
action,  and  beheld  Lord  Cliffe  insensible  in  the  arras  of  two 
men,  and  Joseph  Carey,  very  pale,  in  the  custody  of  the 
police,  his  first  act  was  to  dispatch  a  messenger  for  a  sur- 
geon, his  next  to  request  the  officers  to  release  Mr.  Carey, 
upon  his  own  official  responsibility  ;  then  to  have  the  wounded 
man  tenderly  lifted,  conveyed  to  the  nearest  chamber  on  the 
ground-floor,  and  laid  upon  a  bed ;  lastly,  to  desire  the 
police  to  disperse  the  crowd  from  about  the  door.  And  all 
this  took  but  a  few  moments  to  execute. 

The  surgeon  soon  arrived,  and  was  shown  into  the 
chamber  of  the  patient,  where  Judge  Washington  still 
watched.  He  proceeded  to  the  examination  of  the  wounds. 
Soon  be  turned  to  the  Judge,  and  assured  him  that  there 
was  not  the  slightest  danger,  or  the  least  cause  of  uneasi- 
ness. That  the  insensibility  of  the  patient  was  the  effect 
of  a  stunning  blow  received  on  the  back  of  the  head  in 
falling;  that  the  wound  in  the  chest,  though  bleeding  freely, 
was  only  a  flesh  wound,  and  that  the  flow  of  blood  was 
actually  proving  beneficial  in  slowly  bringing  the  patient  to 
bis  senses 

By  the  time  the  surgeon  had  finished  dressing  the  wound 


K  E  M  O  R  S  E  .  42? 

in  the  chest,  Lord  Cliffe  opened  his  eyes,  and  appeared  per- 
fectly cognizant  of  all  that  had  happened,  as  well  as  all 
that  was  n  jw  going  on. 

The  Judge  feeling  most  anxious  to  clear  Joseph  Carey 
immediately,  drew  the  surgeon  aside,  and  requested  to  know 
whether  the  wounded  man  might  now,  with  safety  to  him- 
self, be  permitted  to  make  a  deposition  as  to  the  facts  of 
the  assault,  and  the  person  of  his  assailant. 

The  surgeon  thought  that  it  could  be  done  without 
rfefc 

Judge  Washington  then  sat  down  by  the  side  of  Lord 
Cliff*-,  and  af.er  some  inquiries  as  to  his  present  state  of 
feeling,  and  some  expression  of  deep  regret  for  the  misfor- 
tune of  the  evening,  he  informed  him  of  the  arrest  of 
Joseph  Carey,  and  of  the  necessity  that  he  should  imme- 
diately give  his  testimony  fur  the  purpose  of  clearing  him, 
as  we.l  as  of  pointing  out  the  real  criminal,  and  setting  the 
police  upon  the  true  track. 

Lord  Cliffe  insmnily  arose,  supporting  himself  upon  his 
elbow,  and  requested  Judge  Washington,  in  his  magisterial 
capacity,  to  administer  the  oath,  and  receive  his  deposition. 

The  Judge  rang  for  a  waiter  to  bring  the  Bible,  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  and  having  them  placed  upon  a  stand  by  the 
bedside,  sat  down  before  it,  summoned  the  physician  and 
the  landlord  as  witnesses,  administered  the  oath,  and  pre- 
pared to  take  down  his  deposition. 

Lord  Cliffe  testified  as  follows  :  That  while  conversing 
svith  Miss  Washington,  in  the  ladies'  parlor  of  the  hotel, 
between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock,  the  bell  of  the  private 
door  was  rung,  and  an  instant  after,  a  waiter  of  the  house 
e.itered  nnd  handed  him  a  note,  purporting  to  come  from 
one  who  a\vuite  1  him  at  the  Eagle  House  with  a  message 
from — (here  Lord  Cliffe  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then 
resumed) — with  a  message  from  Miss  Mountjoy.  Heed- 


428  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

lessly  he  had  cast  the  note  into  the  fire,  and  feeling  a  great 
anxiety  to  gain  news  of  the  missing  lady,  he  had  left  the 
house  immediately,  and  set  out  for  the  appointed  place 
of  meeting.  He  had  not  proceeded  far  from  the  hotel 
before  he  perceived  that  his  footsteps  were  dogged  by  one 
who  turned  as  he  turned,  stopped  as  he  stopped,  and 
dodged  and  disappeared  with  the  agility  of  a  monkey  as 
soon  as  observed.  He  went  on  his  way  still  followed  by 
this  singular  individual,  whose  monkey-like  cunning  and 
agility,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  savage  or  a  maniac. 
Once  or  twice  he  turned  with  the  purpose  of  arresting  him, 
but,  at  such  moments,  he  would  vanish  so  suddenly  as  to 
baffle  pursuit  in  a  dark  night.  He  scarcely  deemed  the 
occasion  demanded  the  interference  of  the  watch ;  and  so, 
believing  hisjbllower  to  be  some  harmless  and  timid  lunatic, 
and  having  his  thoughts  really  engaged  with  a  deeper 
object  of  interest,  Lord  Cliffe  reached  the  Eagle  Hotel, 
which,  to  his  surprise  and  disappointment,  he  found  closed 
up  for  the  night.  Not  well  pleased  with  the  result  of  his 
midnight  stroll,  he  turned  his  steps  toward  home  with  his 
thoughts  too  deeply  absorbed  in  the  subject  of  his  errand 
to  revert  to  his  strange,  forgotten  follower,  until  getting  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Richmond  Hotel,  he  was  suddenly 
thrown  to  the  ground  with  only  an  instant's  recognition  of 
his  strange  follower  in  the  person  of  his  assailant,  before 
he  lost  his  recollection.  He  knew  no  more  until  he  found 
himself  upon  that  bed,  with  the  surgeon  and  the  Judge 
standing  by  his  side.  And  here  ended  his  deposition. 
This,  of  course,  immediately  cleared  Mr.  Carey  who  was 
summoned  to  give  in  his  testimony.  Being  sworn,  he  de- 
posed that  having  left  the  Richmond  Hotel  between  eleven 
and  twelve  that  night,  he  had  gone  immediately  to  the 
house  of  Dr.  Goodwin,  which  was  his  temporary  home. 
That  just  before  retiring  to  bed,  a  message  from  a  dying 


REMORSE.  429 

parishioner  summoned  the  pastor  from  the  house.  That  he 
himself  had  offered  his  services  to  go  in  place  of  the  aged 
Dr.  Goodwin,  and  was  on  his  way  to  the  house  of  the  dying 
man,  when  a  fall,  and  a  groan,  immediately  in  his  path, 
attracted  his  attention  ;  he  hastened  on  just  in  time  to  see 
a  singular-looking  human  being  with  his  knee  upon  the 
breast  of  a  prostrate  man.  As  he  ran  to  the  spot,  shouting 
for  the  watch  at  the  same  time,  the  assassin  sprang  up  and 
fled.  He  stopped  to  raise  the  fallen  man,  drew  the  knife 
that  remained  in  the  wound,  but  just  then  the  watch  gath- 
ered around,  bringing  a  crowd  at  their  heels,  and  he  was 
arrested.  And  here  ended  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Carey. 

Both  Lord  Cliffe  and  Mr.  Carey  declared  that,  dark  as  it 
was,  it  was  impossible  they  could  be  mistaken  in  the  strange 
person  of  the  assailant.  Neither  had  ever  set  eyes  on  him 
before,  nor  could  they  surmise  his  name  or  purpose.  Both 
were  impressed  with  a  strong  idea  of  his  lunacy.  When  the 
examination  was  over,  and  Joseph  Carey  had  departed  to 
the  bedside  of  the  dying  parishioner,  in  the  hope  of  being 
yet  providentially  in  time  to  render  some  service,  if  not  to 
the  sufferer,  at  least  to  his  family — and  when  Lord  Cliffe 
had  sunk  to  sleep,  Judge  Washington  sought  his  own 
chamber.  Here,  with  his  elbow  resting  upon  the  table,  his 
head  bowed  upon  his  hand,  whose  open  palm  covered  his 
eyes,  he  sat  buried  in  profound  thought.  A  single  sentence 
in  the  description  of  the  person  of  the  unknown  assassin  had 
struck  the  electric  chain  of  association  and  memory,  and 
darted  a  ray  of  light  twenty  years  into  the  past,  and  almost 
identified  the  assailant  of  Lord  Cliffe  and  the  destroyer  of 
Mary  Washington — the  supposed  secret  foe  of  the  whole 
Carey  family.  What  motive  could  any  have  to  hate  the 
Carey's  ?  No  one  had  ever  been  more  generally  admired 
and  beloved  than  Colonel  Carey  and  his  family.  It  was  a 
uioral  impossibility  that  his  son  or  daughter,  both  of  whom 


430  THE     TWO     SISTEBS. 

had  fiillen  victims  to  the  unknown  enemy,  could  have  <riven 
cause  of  mortal  hatred.  Was  it  Colonel  Carey  himself  who 
had  made  an  enemy  of  such  an  unrelenting  nature,  that  his 
hatred  extended  to  all  bearing;  his  name  ?  If  so.  in  what 
manner  had  he  nuide  this  enemy  ?  by  what  act  ?  what  had 
ever  o  curred  in  his  life  ?  what  had  ever  occunvd  on  his 
plantation  to  inspire  one  person  with  such  a  las;ing  and 
fatal  enmity  ?  But  one  instance  of  wrong-doing  could 
Judge  Washington  remember  against  Colonel  Carey.  That 
though  strictly  speaking  not  his  own  act,  or  by  his  own 
orders,  had  yet  occurred  on  his  plantation,  and  under  hia 
an  horiiy — and  from  the  memory  of  this  one  act  the  Judge 
had  ever  shrunk  with  the  natural  loathing  of  a  humane  and 
ivfiued  mind;  but  as  he  never  could  by  any  chain  of  circum- 
stances connect  that  act  with  the  awful  events  that  speedily 
followed,  he  had  many  times  dismissed  the  thought.  But 
ii  had  recurred  again  and  again,  with  singular  pertinacity. 
Now  it  fastened  on  his  mind.  Finally  he  drew  his  writing- 
desk  toward  him,  and  sitting  down,  wrote  to  Broke  Shield 
to  come  immediately  to  Richmond. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  surgeon  saw  his  patient  again, 
examined  and  redressed  his  wound,  and  commanded  him  to 
lie  still  for  a  day  or  two  to  give  it  time  to  close  and  heal. 

When  Virginia  and  Helen  came  to  breakfast,  they  missed 
and  inquired  for  Lord  Cliffe,  and  received  for  an  answer  the 
report  that  his  lordship  was  not  well  enough  to  appear  at 
the  table.  After  breakfast  they  were  told  of  the  assault 
that  had  been  made  upon  him  in  the  ni<rht,  but  assured,  at 
the  same  instant,  that  all  danger  was  passed.  The  girls  had 
been  awakened  from  sleep  by  the  noise  of  many  people  run 
ning  to  and  fro  in  the  night ;  but  supposing  such  disturb- 
ances not  unusual  or  alarming  in  a  large  hotel,  they  had  not 
suffered  the  least  fear  or  uneasiness. 

Virginia  asked  permission  to  go  to  her  cousin's  room,  ana 


REMORSE.  481 

having  received  it,  she  took  her  work,  and,  accompanied  by 
Helen,  went  thither.  The  girls  passed  the  greater  portion 
of  the  forenoon  beside  the  lounge  upon  which  the  invalid 
reposed — amusing  his  tedious  hours  of  confinement  by  music, 
reading,  or  conversation.  In  the  afternoon,  Joseph  Carey 
looked  in,  and  spent  an  hour. 

The  next  day  Lord  Cliffe  was  much  better ;  and  the  third 
morning  from  his  attack,  he  left  his  room. 

In  the  meantime,  nothing  was  heard  of  the  assailant, 
though  the  utmost  vigilance  of  the  police  had  been  put  in 
requisition. 

Lord  Cliffe  and  Mr.  Carey  persisted  in  their  first  opinion 
that  the  assassin  was  a  maniac. 

A  week  from  the  day  of  the  assault  upon  Lord  Cliffe, 
Judge  Washington  and  his  family  removed  into  their  town- 
house,  that  was  now  in  readiness  for  their  reception  and 
residence  through  the  winter. 

During  the  past  week,  the  Judge's  time  had  been  much 
occupied  between  public  duty  and  the  demands  of  private 
friendship.  His  oldest  friend,  General  Mountjoy,  was  lying 
extremly  ill,  and  with  the  many  great  needs  of  sickness  and 
age,  exacted  much  time  and  attention. 

It  was  the  morning  succeeding  that  of  their  removal  into 
their  own  house,  that  the  family  were  knocked  up  about 
daybreak,  and  a  request  made  that  Judge  Washington 
would  hasten  immediately  to  the  house  of  General  Mountjoy, 
who  was  lying  at  the  point  of  death,  and  desired  to  see  his 
old  friend  upon  business  of  the  most  vital  importance. 
Without  a  moment's  unnecessary  delay,  Judge  Washington 
hastened  to  obey  the  summons. 

He  was  absent  many  hours. 

The  family  waited  breakfast  for  him  until  ten  o'clock, 
and  then  sat  down  without  him.  At  eleven  the  postman 
called  and  left  the  day's  nail.  It  was  almost  an  unpre- 


4:32  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

cedented  event  for  the  Judge  to  be  absent  at  the  mail  hour, 
and  yet  he  had  not  returned.  Virginia  took  the  letters, 
glanced  over  their  superscription,  and  started  violently  as 
her  eye  fell  upon  one  letter  bearing  the  Boston  post-mark, 
directed  in  the  handwriting  of  Theodore  Hervey,  and  marked 
"private." 

"  Helen,"  she  said,  turning  the  letter  anxiously  in  her 
hand,  "  you  got  a  letter  from  your  brother  yesterday,  say- 
ing that  he  had  just  reached  Boston,  did  you  not  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  here  is  another,  Helen,  post-marked  Boston, 
directed  to  my  grandfather,  and  marked  'private'  Oh, 
Helen  !  what  can  this  mean  ?  It  is  wrong  to  be  curious — 
it  is  foolish  to  be  anxious — yet — Magdalene,  oh,  how  my 
heart  beats  !  How  I  do  wish  father  would  come  I" 

At  that  moment,  as  though  her  wish  had  been  magic,  the 
street-bell  rang,  and  soon  after  Judge  Washington  entered 
the  parlor.  Virginia's  first  impulse  was  to  spring  to  him, 
thrust  the  letter  into  his  hand,  and  entreat  him  to  read  it. 
But  the  stillness  and  solemnity  of  his  countenance  awed 
her.  She  arose  and  handed  him  a  chair,  and  he  sank  into 
it  silently.  Presently  she  ventured  to  say  to  him, 

"Father,  the  mail  has  come." 

"Put  it  aside,  my  dear." 

"There  is  a  letter  from  Theodore  Hervey — we  think 
that— 

"  No  matter — leave  it  awhile,  my  child." 

Then  Virginia  recollected,  with  some  compunction,  that 
selfishly  absorbed  in  her  own  subject  of  anxiety,  she  had 
almost  forgotten  her  father's  old  friend,  whose  sick  bed, 
death-bed  perhaps,  he  had  just  left. 

"  Father,  I  hope  this  also  was  a  false  alarm.  I  do  trusl 
that  General  Mountjoy  is  no  worse  1" 

"No.  my  child,  he  is  better." 


REMORSE.  433 

"  Indeed,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  father.  I  thought 
it  would  be  so.  I  wish  they  would  not  disturb  you  so 
needlessly,  though." 

"You  mistake  me,  my  child  1  General  Mountjoy  is  better, 
as  it  is  better  to  be  released  by  death  from  extreme  infirmity 
and  suffering." 

"  Oh,  dear  father,  is  it  so  ?  and  you  have  had  this  trial. 
You  look  so  fatigued  !  Won't  you  lie  down  in  your  room, 
and  let  me  bring  you  a  cup  of  coffee  ?" 

"  Dear  child,  no — I  will  not  lie  down.  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  to-day,  Virginia.  But  you  may  bring  me  a  cup 
of  coffee,  my  love.  Where  is  Cliffe  ?" 

"  In  the  library,  dear  father,"  replied  Virginia,  as  she 
took  his  hat  and  cane,  and  put  them  awaj,  and  hastened 
out  to  get  the  cup  of  coffee. 

"  Shall  I  call  him,  sir  ?"  asked  Helen  Hervey,  coming  to 
his  side,  anxious  to  serve  him. 

"  No-^-yes,  my  dear  !  Go,  Helen,  and  ask  him  to  come 
here,"  replied  the  Judge. 

Helen  hastened  to  the  library,  and  soon  returned  with 
Lord  Cliffe. 

When  Judge  Washington  had  drunk  the  cup  of  coffee 
brought  him  by  Virginia,  he  commanded  the  two  girls  to 
be  seated — and  said, 

"  What  I  am  about  to  communicate  to  you,  my  children, 
might  as  well  be  kept  secret  for  the  present,  though  in  a 
few  days  it  must  be  generally  known.  Much  as  I  know- 
that  you  will  condole  with  me  for  the  loss  of  my  oldest 
friend—" 

"  Oh,  sir,  we  do  1  indeed  we  do,"  said  both  the  girls, 
while  Lord  Cliffe  looked  all  that  he  did  not  speak. 

"  I  am  sure  of  that  my  children  !  Much  then  as  you 
share  in  my  grief  at  the  loss  of  so  old  and  dear  a  friend  as 
the  late  General  Mountjoy,  you  will  nevertheless  rejoice,  as 


434  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

I  do,  that  he  at  last  rendered  full  justice  to  one  whom  we 
all  dearly  love,  and  who  must  be  found  if  she  be  still 
alive." 

"  Magdalene  !"  exclaimed  Virginia. 

"  Yes,  Magdalene.  General  Mountjoy  sent  for  me,  this 
morning,  to  take  charge  of  his  will — in  which  he  acknowl- 
edges his  granddaughter,  and — with  the  exception  of  a  few 
very  trifling  legacies — leaves  her  the  whole  of  his  great 
estate — Mattowa,  The  Levels,  Alta  Bayou — all !  Vir- 
ginia, my  dear,  you  are  no  longer  the  richest  heiress  in  your 
native  county." 

"Oh,  thank  God,  that  my  sister  Magdalene  is!"  replied 
Ginnie,  fervently. 

"  Lord  Cliife,"  continued  the  Judge,  turning  to  his  lord- 
ship— "  when  my  old  friend  appointed  me  one  executor  of 
his  will,  and  requested  me  to  name  a  coadjutor,  I  took  the 
liberty  of  naming  yourself.  It  was  for  that  reason  that  I 
sent  for  you  now.  You  and  myself  are  the  executors  of  the 
last  will  and  testament  of  the  late  Governor  Mountjoy,  and 
we  must  immediately  take  measures  for  the  discovery  of  his 
granddaughter  and  sole  heiress,  Magdalene  Mountjoy!" 

During  the  latter  part  of  this  speech,  Virginia's  face 
had  paled  and  flushed,  her  frame  trembled,  and  her  manner 
betrayed  the  greatest  inward  agitation.  At  last,  when  the 
Judge  paused,  she  started  up  and  ran  and  got  the  letter  of 
Theodore  Hervey,  and  thrust  it  into  his  hand,  saying  : — 
"  Father,  dear  father,  oh,  do  read  this  letter !  Quick,  a* 
once,  please !  Oh,  I  am  sure  this  must  contain  news  of 
our  Magdalene  !" 

The  Judge  contemplated  her  with  some  surprise  and  dis- 
approbation, slowly  broke  the  seal  of  the  letter  and  glancod 
over  it.  But  as  he  read,  his  face  expressed  in  turn,  sur- 
prise, pleasure,  perplexity,  disappointment,  sorrow.  'Yes, 
this  letter  contains  news  of  Magdalene,  my  dear  child,  but 


REMORSE.  435 

news  that  we  can  scarcely  rejoice  at.  Theodore  has  found 
her  in  Boston,  ill  even  unto  death." 

Virginia  turned  very  pale  at  his  words,  and  reached  out 
her  hand  for  the  letter ;  but  the  Judge  shook  his  head,  re- 
fusing it  to  her,  and  passing  it  over  to  Lord  Cliffe,  he  said, 
with  a  significant  look  :  "  My  lord,  as  you  are  associated 
with  me  in  the  trusteeship  of  Miss  Mountjoy's  estate,  per- 
haps this  paragraph  may  have  some  interest  for  you  us  it 
has  for  me.  Perhaps  you  can  throw  some  light  upon  it — 
a  thing  that  I  confess  myself  utterly  unable  to  do." 

Lord  Cliffe  received  the  letter  with  his  customary  serenity 
of  manner,  and  ran  his  eye  calmly  over  the  indicated  para- 
graph. You  would  never  have  surmised  from  his  manner 
of  reading  that  he  had  ever  heard  of  Magdalene  before. 

The  passage  was  as  follows  : 

"The  strangest  thing  about  Magdalene's  illness  is  the 
inexplicable  circumstance  that  occasioned  it.  It  appears 
that  she  was  in  high  health  when  the  morning  paper  contain- 
ing that  false  report,  purporting  to  be  an  authentic  account 
of  the  murder  of  Lord  Cliffe,  was  put  into  her  hand.  No 
sooner  had  she  read  it,  than  she  became  so  violently 
agitated  as  to  cause  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel,  which 
resulted  in  her  very  dangerous,  if  not  fatal  illness.  She 
was  recovering  somewhat  from  the  first  effects  of  the 
hemorrhage,  when  the  conversation  of  her  attendants,  (who 
erroneously  supposed  her  to  be  sleeping,)  turning  upon  the 
subject  of  the  supposed  murder,  she  bacame  so  terribjy 
shaken,  as  to  cause  a  return  of  the  hemorrhage.  This 
second  attack  also  yielded  to  skillful  treatment,  and  she 
was  again  getting  better,  when  the  fact  of  Lord  Clifl'e's 
escape  becoming  known  to  her,  her  sudden  joy  was  so 
excessive  as  to  occasion  a  third  and  most  dangerous  re- 
lapse. This  has  also  oeen  relieved ;  but  it  is  the  opinion 
of  her  physician  that  she  cannot  possibly  survive  anotucr 


•436  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

attack.  She  is  now  sleeping  under  the  influence  of  an 
opiate,  and  I  have  left  her  to  write  this  letter.  But  what 
connection  is  there,  then,  between  the  fate  of  Lord  Cliffe 
and  her  own  happiness  and  life  ?" 

Lord  Cliffe  read  this  to  the  end,  and  calmly  as  ever,  re- 
turned the  letter  to  the  Judge  without  a  comment,  and 
rising,  begged  to  be  excused,  and  left  the  room.  He  hur- 
ried to  his  own  chamber,  and  with  both  hands  pressed  to 
his  throbbing  brow,  gave  himself  up  to  the  fiends  of  re- 
morse, jealousy,  and  anger  that  tormented  him.  At  first, 
for  very  shame,  he  tried  to  subdue  anger,  and  cast  out  jeal- 
ousy, and  suffer  only  the  remorse  that  was  just.  He  tried 
to  think  of  Magdalene  lying  ill,  and  broken  with  anxiety 
for  him,  and  to  encourage  all  the  penitence  that  that 
thought  could  suggest ;  but  despite  his  efforts,  the  image 
of  Theodore  Hervey  in  her  sick  chamber,  by  her  bedside — 
as  friend,  brother,  comforter,  lover,  would  present  itself  to 
his  recently  awakened  jealousy.  He  had  never  ceased  to 
love  Magdalene,  notwithstanding  all  the  wrong  he  had 
done  her ;  he  had  never  ceased  to  love  her  from  the  first 
hour  they  had  met  to  this;  and  when  in  his  conventional 
view  of  the  fitness  of  things,  he  had  thought  of  choosing  a 
wife  from  his  own  rank  in  society,  and  reuniting  the  severed 
branches  and  estates  of  his  own  family,  by  marrying  his 
cousin,  Virginia  Washington,  he  had  impaled  his  own 
affections  no  less  than  Magdalene's  fame.  And  with  that 
strange  discord  of  heart  and  hand,  even  while  he  had 
pressed  his  suit  most  vehemently  with  Virginia,  he  had 
most  deeply  loved  Magdalene.  Nay  more ;  often,  often 
while  gazing  on  her  miniature,  fascinated,  absorbed  by  the 
beautiful,  dark  bright  countenance  pictured  there,  which 
Virginia  truly  said  had  more  power  to  trouble  the  waters 
of  his  soul  than  her  own  living  face,  and  smile,  and  touch 
possessed,  he  would  feel  an  almost  incredible  temptation 


RE  MO  RSI.  487 

10  start  np  and  set  out  in  search  of  his  Magdalene.  Be- 
sides, she  felt  near  to  him,  assimilated  to  him,  familiar,  in- 
timate, as  no  other  one  in  the  world  ever  did,  or  could. 
In  every  mood  of  her  strong  nature  she  was  acceptable, 
attractive,  dear  to  him.  He  recalled  the  hour  when  she 
had  inspired  him  with  a  strength  of  life,  emotion,  joy,  never 
approached  before  or  since ;  and  when  do  you  think  that 
was  ?  The  last  time  he  had  seen  her,  when  meeting  her 
in  the  lobby  of  the  theatre,  he  had  stood  one  moment  as- 
tonished, appalled  at  her  still  and  awful  passion,  and  the 
next  felt  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  catch  the  beauti- 
ful Medea  to  his  bosom.  He  must  have  done  so,  but  she 
passed  too  swiftly,  and  was  lost  to  him,  and  he  had  the 
opportunity  of  recovering  his  self-control.  Nevertheless, 
from  that  hour  his  passion  for  Magdalene  had  returned  in 
all  its  pristine  force.  Did  he  regard  her  threat,  knowing 
the  stern  strength  of  his  character  ?  Not  a  whit  I  He 
alone  possessed  the  key  of  that  character.  Was  he  shocked 
at  the  deep  and  bitter  intensity  of  her  desire  for  revenge  ? 
Not  in  the  least.  He  knew  that  that  burning  passion  might 
last  years,  many  years,  a  lifetime,  until  it  had  consumed  its 
victim,  if  he  himself  permitted  it  to  last  so  long.  But  he 
knew  also,  that  once  by  the  side  of  his  lioness,  with  his 
own  arm  about  her  waist,  and  her  head  upon  his  bosom, 
and  his  voice  in  her  ear,  with  one  word  of  pledged  faith 
upon  his  tongue,  all  that  vengeance  would  be  changed ; 
the  waters  of  Marah  would  be  made  sweet,  and  roll  back 
in  a  sea  of  returning  love,  such  as  weaker  natures  could 
not  feel  or  sustain.  And  not  one  whit  of  Magdalene's 
strength  of  anger  or  of  love — because  it  was  strength — 
would  he  have  wished  abated. 

Since  Virginia's  firm  and  final  rejection  of  his  suit,  his 
thoughts  had  reverted  again  and  again  to  Magdalene,  with 
undivided  force.     A  thousand  times  had  he  cursed  the  fal^e 
27 


438  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

pride,  with  which  he  had  cheated  his  own  heart,  and  be 
trayed  hers.  Not  very  much  did  he  regret  Virginia's  de- 
cided refusal  of  his  hand — that  cut  one  cord  holding  him 
from  his  duty,  and  his  deeper  inclination,  which  his  pride 
prevented  him  from  severing  with  his  own  act. 

These  had  been  his  thoughts,  even  while  his  idea  of  Mag- 
dalene's habitation  and  circumstances  had  been  very  vague. 

Now  the  recent  events  of  General  Mountjoy's  death  and 
will,  by  which  be  had  left  her  an  immense  fortune,  and  the 
simultaneous  arrival  of  Theodore  Harvey's  letter,  announc- 
ing her  extreme  illness  at  Boston  and  the  cause  of  her  at- 
tack, had  so  drawn  to  a  focus  all  his  vague  and  scattering 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  purposes ;  had  so  intensified  his  de- 
sire of  seeing  Magdalene,  and  throwing  himself  upon  her 
deep  love — that  deep  love  that  underlaid  all  else  in  her 
nature — for  restoration  ;  his  being  appointed  coexecutor, 
with  Judge  Washington,  of  her  grandfather's  will ;  his  exact 
knowledge  of  her  residence  and  condition,  had  so  smoothed 
his  path  before  him,  that  finally  all  these  motives  decided 
bim  to  seek  her  presence  without  delay. 

Writing  a  hasty  note  to  Judge  Washington — and  ex- 
plaining his  secession  by  her  rejection,  and  other  circum- 
stances of  equal  moment,  he  begged  leave  to  withdraw  all 
pretensions  to  the  hand  of  Miss  Washington.  Then  re- 
questing his  host  to  excuse  his  hasty  absence  for  a  few  days, 
and  to  make  his  respectful  adieus  to  the  ladies  of  his  family, 
he  bade  him  farewell  for  the  present. 

He  sent  this  note  to  the  library,  to  be  left  until  Judge 
Washington  should  find  it,  and  feeling  very  much  disin- 
clined for  company,  he  left  the  house,  and  soon  after  set  out 
for  the  North. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 
JOSEPH    CAREY'S    DESTINY. 

"  To  wed  the  earliest  loved— 
She  whom  in  laughing  childhood  and  ripe  youth 
Was  ever  thine — with  whose  advancing  thought 
Yours  grew  entwined,  and  who  at  last  doth  yield 
Her  maiden  coyness,  and  in  mystic  bond 
Will  link  herself  to  thee,  one  heart,  one  life 
Bind  ye  together — in  the  innermost  soul 
Eeither  be  known  to  other."— Al/ord. 

WHEN  Judge  Washington  read  that  portion  of  Theodore 
Hervey's  letter,  which  referred  to  the  sudden  and  nearly 
fatal  illness  of  Magdalene,  to  the  shock  sustained  by  her  on 
hearing  of  the  attack  made  upon  Lord  Cliffe's  life,  his  sus- 
picions as  to  the  real  state  of  affairs  between  them  were, 
for  the  first  time,  excited.  When  he  placed  the  letter  in 
Lord  Cliffe's  hands,  and  called  his  attention  to  the  para- 
graph in  question,  watching  him,  and  observing  his  counte- 
nance change  as  he  read  it,  his  distrust  was  increased  ; 
when  Lord  Cliffe  returned  him  the  letter,  without  one  word 
of  comment,  and  rising  in  haste,  suddenly  left  the  room,  his 
doubts  were  greatly  augmented.  Finally,  when  late  in  the 
afternoon  he  received  his  lordship's  note,  respectfully  with- 
drawing his  suit  to  Miss  Washington,  and  taking  leave  of 
the  family  for  the  present,  his  doubts  were  fully  confirmed, 
his  mind  made  up,  and  his  own  course  of  action  decided  upon. 

But  just  now  the  last  offices  of  friendship  to  the  late 
General  Mountjoy,  claimed  his  "'hole  attention.  As  the 
intimate  friend  of  the  deceased,  and  as  one  himself  in  a  high 
official  station,  he  was  very  properly  selected  to  negotiate 
with  the  family  of  General  Mountjoy  on  the  part  of  the 

(439) 


440  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

State  authorities,  who  wished  to  show  every  fitting  re- 
spect to  the  memory  of  the  late  ex-Governor,  without  ob- 
truding upon  the  sacreduess  of  private  grief.  Thus  his 
part  in  the  arrangements  of  the  obsequies  occupied  him 
exclusively  for  several  days.  The  day  of  the  funeral  so- 
lemnities was  one  of  the  most  painful  "  parade"  to  Judge 
Washington. 

All  places  of  business,  and  all  public  offices  were  closed. 
The  city  was  hung  in  black — from  sunrise  the  minute  can- 
nonading commenced — many  military  and  volunteer  com- 
panies were  ordered  out — the  streets  were  crowded  with 
soldiers,  citizens,  horses,  and  carriages — the  air  was  filled 
with  mournful  martial  music,  and  all  the 

"  Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  death," 

was  upon  the  scene  of  action. 

At  an  early  hour  of  the  day,  Judge  Washington's  family 
was,  as  friendship  demanded,  with  the  family  of  the  de- 
ceased; 

In  the  absence  of  Dr.  Goodwin,  their  pastor,  who  was 
still  confined  to  his  house  with  indisposition,  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Carey  performed  the  burial  service,  after  the  manner  of  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church. 

At  the  close  of  the  funeral  obsequies,  at  a  late  hour  in 
the  afternoon,  Judge  Washington  and  his  family  returned 
to  their  own  house.  He  had  invited  Joseph,  who  was  now 
with  the  bereaved  household,  to  come  to  him  in  the  evening. 
As  soon  as  they  reached  home,  the  Judge  retired,  in  deep 
thought,  to  his  study,  and  the  girls  went  to  their  respective 
chambers  to  repose  awhile,,  and  prepare  for  tea. 

At  seven  o'clock,  their  early  supper  hour,  the  family 
assembled  in  the  parlor,  where  Joseph  Carey  soon  joined 
them.  The  solemn  events  of  the  day  had  thrown  a  shade 
of  seriousness  over  the  evening  circle.  Judge  Washington 


JOSEPH    CAREY'S    DESTINY.         441 

himself  was  still  absorbed  in  deep  thought.  When  tea  was 
over,  and  they  had  gathered  around  the  centre-table,  Helen 
and  Virginia  with  their  needlework,  and  Joseph  Carey  with 
a  volume  of  Slmkspeare,  to  read  aloud,  at  Ginnie's  request, 
the  tragedy  of  King  Lear,  Judge  Washington,  in  variance 
with  his  custom,  sat  apart  in  his  large,  easy  chair.  Before 
obeying  Ginnie's  command,  Joseph  turned  to  the  Judge  and 
inquired  if  he  were  well,  if  the  reading  would  disturb  him  ? 

"No,  my  dear  Joseph,  go  on,"  replied  the  Judge,  in  a 
tone  and  manner  of  such  familiar  and  endearing  affection, 
that  Ginnie  turned  her  eyes  on  her  grandfather,  with  a  look 
full  of  the  deepest  love  and  highest  veneration,  and  then 
upon  Joseph,  with  an  expression  of  security  and  happiness. 
The  reading  went  on,  and  the  length  of  the  play  filled  up 
the  long  winter  evening. 

At  its  conclusion,  a  half  hour  was  spent  in  conversation, 
and  then  the  Judge  requested  Mr.  Carey  to  read  the  even- 
ing prayers.  Virginia  arose,  and  getting  the  Bible  and 
prayer-book,  placed  them  on  the  stand  before  Joseph. 
Helen  rang  for  the  domestics,  who,  with  quiet  and  orderly 
decorum,  soon  after  entered,  and  took  their  places.  The 
evening  services  commenced — proceeded — ended — and  the 
domestics  quietly  withdrew  from  the  room. 

Joseph  Carey  arose  to  take  leave,  but  at  a  sign  from  the 
Judge,  he  resumed  his  seat, 

Judge  Washington  called  Virginia  to  his  side,  and  when 
she  came  and  stood  by  him,  with  so  much  of  love  and  of 
expectation  on  her  speaking  countenance. 

"Ginnie,"  he  murmured,  and  there  was  a  world  of  affec- 
tion in  the  tone  in  which  he  pronounced  this  soft  ab- 
breviative,  "  Ginuie,  darling,  put  your  hand  in  mine,  Gin- 
nie, the  world  looks  very  different  after  such  a  day  as 
this,  to  what  it  does  in  ordinary  times.  Ginnie,  the 
gauds,  and  splendors,  and  dignities  of  life  are  nothing  to 


442  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

the  soul  gone  to  his  Creator  to-day  ;  they  seem  little  worth 
to  me  now.  Good  hearts,  true  and  warm  affections,  firm 
and  honest  principles  and  purposes,  appear  to  me  now  of 
infinitely  greater  value.  Ginnie,"  he  continued,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause,  "Ginnie,  dearest,  I  wished  to  reunite  the 
severed  branches  and  estates  of  your  family  ;  I  wished  fool- 
ishly, for  the  worldly  distinction  of  yourself,  to  see  you 
Lady  Cliffe  ;  that  title,  I  am  now  nearly  sure,  belongs  of 
rig/it  to  another.  You  look  surprised  :  you  will  understand, 
anon.  Yes  :  that  title  belongs,  in  strict  justice,  to  another; 
and  if  it  did  not,  still,  knowing  what  I  know,  feeling  as  I 
feel,  I  should  not  covet  the  dignity  for  you.  I  wish  rather 
to  consult  my  own  conscience,  and  your  happiness  and  wel- 
fare, in  bestowing  you,  with  my  blessing,  upon  one  of  fixed 
principles  and  pure  affections — one  of  whom  you  once  truly 
said  that  he  merited  my  preference  above  all  others."  Then 
rising,  feebly,  from  his  chair,  and  still  holding  the  hand  of 
Virginia,  he  approached,  and  laid  it  in  that  of  Mr.  Carey, 
saying  :  "  Joseph,  will  you  have  her  ?" 

****** 
What  did  Joseph  do  ?  what  did  he  reply  ?  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  clearly  recollect.  I  suppose  that  Mr.  Carey  said 
every  thing  that  was  expected  of  him,  and  was  proper  to  be 
said,  while  it  is  not  unlikely  either  that  he  might  have  said 
something  very  foolish,  and  that  he  ought  not  to  have  said, 
— the  most  self-possessed  and  dignified  persons  are  apt  to 
do  so  on  such  occasions,  if  they  feel;  and,  besides,  the  ques- 
tion was  so  sudden  and  embarrassing :  "  Joseph,  will  you 
have  her  ?"  Of  course  he  would.  Judge  Washington 
knew  that  well  enough  when  he  asked  the  question  ;  which 
question,  I  suspect,  was  a  piece  of  polite  compensation,  a 
delicate  apology  for  his  long  opposition  and  late  consent, 
as  though  he  had  said,  "Joseph,  the  child  that  I  have  so 
long  withheld  from  you,  I  now  give  you  an  opportunity  of 


JOSEPH    CAREY'S    DESTINY.        443 

refusing  in  yonr  turn,  which  (soito  voce)  I  know  you  cannot 
do."  No  ;  I  do  not  know,  certainly,  what  Joseph  said  or 
did,  but  tradition  runs  that  he  held  Ginnie's  hand  tightly 
within  his  own,  (he  need  not  have  done  so — Ginnie  was  not 
going  to  withdraw  it),  raised  his  eyes  to  Judge  Washington, 
and  looked  "  unutterable  thoughts." 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  Judge  Washington 
announced  to  his  family  his  intention  of  setting  out  the  next 
day  for  Boston,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  his  adopted 
daughter  and  ward,  Magdalene  Mountjoy,  and  also  his 
intention  of  requesting  Joseph  Carey  to  take  up  his  abode 
in  the  house  for  the  protection  of  his  girls  during  his  short 
absence.  After  breakfast  the  circle  separated,  the  Judge  to 
seek  Joseph  and  commence  preparations  for  his  journey, 
Virginia  to  indite  a  loving  epistle  to  her  sister,  and  Helen 
to  write  a  letter  to  her  brother. 

But  something  immediately  occurred  to  change  all  their 
plans  for  the  present,  for  no  sooner  had  Judge  Washington, 
after  leaving  the  hall,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  ad- 
vanced into  the  street,  than  he  met  Adam  Hawk  coming  to 
the  house.  Adam  Hawk,  "  all  shaven  and  shorn,"  and 
wearing  a  look  of  stern  satisfaction  upon  his  countenance. 
No  sooner  had  Judge  Washington  caught  a  sight  of  the 
tout  ensemble  of  the  old  man,  newly  shaven,  neatly  dressed, 
leaning  lightly  upon  his  staff,  and  wearing  that  look  of 
triumph,  than  the  whole  truth  of  Adam's  mission  to  town 
flashed  upon  the  Judge's  mind. 

"  Well,  Adam  ?"  he  said,  eagerly. 

"Well,  sir,  you  see  I  am  shaved." 

"  Come  in,  old  friend  !  Come  in  !  You  are  weary ! 
How  far  came  you  this  morning!"  inquired  the  Judge. 
stepping  up  the  marble  steps  before  him  and  opening  ihu 
door. 


4:44  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  I  left  Prospect  Plains  day  before  yesterday,  riding  the 
mule  Billy.  He  was  tired  out  at  the  Cross  Roads,  where  I 
got  to  last  night ;  so  this  morning,  leaving  him  there  to 
rest,  I  took  my  staff  and  walked  on,  and  here  I  am." 

"  Eight  miles  on  foot  before  breakfast !  too  much  for 
you,  at  your  age,  old  friend  !  You  must  have  breakfast 
before  you  tell  me  one  word,"  said  the  Judge;  who,  though 
intensely  anxious,  was  thoughtful  for  his  old  overseer's  com- 
fort. He  took  him  into  the  dining-room,  from  which  the 
breakfast  things  were  not  yet  removed,  and  set  him  down 
the  table,  ringing  for  a  servant  to  come  and  wait  on  him. 

After  breakfast,  Judge  Washington,  followed  by  Adam 
Hawk,  entered  his  study,  where  he  remained  clos-ettd  with 
his  overseer  all  the  forenoon.  At  dinner  he  met  his  family 
again,  and  changed  the  arrangement  of  the  morning,  in  the 
respect  that,  instead  of  going  to  Boston,  he  must,  with  all 
his  household,  set  out  immediately  for  Prospect  Plains. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

RECONCILIATION. 

"  Let  us  no  more  contend,  nor  blame 
Each  other,  blamed  enough  elsewhere,  bat  btrivs 
In  offices  of  love,  how  we  can  lighten 
Each  other's  burden  in  our  share  of  life." — Milton. 

GRATITUDE — deep,  fervent  gratitude  —  more  than  any 
thing  else,  burned  in  Magdalene's  heart,  and  glowed  upon 
her  countenance,  as  she  lay  hours,  many  long  hours,  with 
clasped  hands  and  upraised  glance,  silent  upon  her  bed — 
gratitude  that  her  soul  was  delivered  from  the  guilt  of  a 


RECONCILIATION.  4:4:5 

great  crime — gratitude  to  God  only.  This  feeling  so  drew 
in  and  absorbed  all  other  emotions  and  thoughts,  that 
scarcely  was  she  conscious  of  the  deep  devotion  of  Theo- 
dore Hervey  to  her  service  While  she  would  be  thus  wrap- 
ped in  reverie,  hour  after  hour  would  he  sit  patiently  by  her 
bedside,  waiting  until  she  noticed  him,  or  anticipating  her 
wants  before  she  had  expressed  them.  Little  did  Magda- 
lene know  how  much  her  life  was  owing  to  the  constant 
vigilance,  the  unremitting  care  of  Theodore  Hervey ;  how 
his  anxiety  for  her  recovery  had  endowed  him  with  a  sort 
of  additional  sense — a  fine,  subtle  intuition,  by  which  he  at 
once  perceived  and  averted  any  danger  that  might  threaten — 
while  he  recognized  and  gathered  about  her  every  good  in- 
Juence  that  could  benefit  her. 

Above  all  things  he  guarded  her  from  agitations ;  and  so 
well  had  he  succeeded  in  warding  off  this  particular  peril, 
that  she  had  been  protected  from  the  least  cause  of  excite- 
ment, and  so  had  suffered  no  recent  outbreak  of  her  fearful 
hemorrhage,  and  was  now  recovering  her  power  of  motion 
and  speech. 

After  writing  to  Judge  Washington,  and  waiting  long 
enough  to  receive  an  answer,  which  owing  to  the  multifa- 
rious occupations  of  that  gentleman  had  not  yet  arrived, 
Mr.  Hervey,  in  some  expectation  that  the  letter  might  be 
answered  in  person  by  some  member  of  the  family,  had 
given  orders  that  he  himself  should  be  first  cautiously  and 
secretly  informed  if  any  one  came  inquiring  for  himself  or 
the  sick  lady,  as  it  was  positively  necessary  that  she  should 
not  be  agitated  by  a  surprise. 

One  afternoon  he  was  sitting  with  Magdalene,  reading, 
for  her  amusement,  from  Mrs.  Hemans'  poems.  Magda- 
lene was  not  now,  as  usual,  absorbed  in  reverie,  but  giving 
him  her  whole  attention,  lying  over  on  her  side,  with  her 
face  turned  toward  him,  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  full  of 


446  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

earnest,  fervent,  grateful  affection — while,  with  one  hand,  he 
pressed  her  waxen-like  fingers,  and  with  the  other  held  the 
volume  from  which  he  read,  looking  extremely  happy.  He 
had  been  reading  "  The  Sisters,"  "  Our  Daily  Paths," 
"Christ  Stilling  the  Tempest," — finally  he  inadvertently 
read  the  title  of  another  and  a  different  'style  of  poem, 
"  Properzia  Rossi." 

"  Yes,  read  that,"  murmured  Magdalene.  And  as  he  read 
the  lines  of  the  text : 

"  Tell  me,  no  more,  no  more, 
Of  my  soul's  lofty  gifts !  are  they  not  vain 
To  quench  its  haunting  thirst  of  happiness? 
Have  I  not  loved,  and  striven,  and  failed  to  bind 
One  true  heart  unto  me,  whereon  my  own 
Might  have  a  resting-place,  a  home  for  all 
Its  burden  of  affections  ?     I  depart, 
Unknown,  though  Fame  goes  with  me;  I  must  leave 
The  earth  unknown.     Yet  it  may  b«  that  death 
Shall  give  my  name  a  power  to  win  such  tears 
As  would  have  made  life  precious." 

He  had  read  thus  far,  when  a  low  sob  attracted  his  at- 
tention. Ceasing,  and  turning  to  Magdalene,  he  saw  her 
eyes  full  of  tears,  and  her  bosom  heaving  an  instant  only, 
and  then  the  rising  emotion  was  repressed,  and  with  her 
habitual  self-control,  she  pressed  his  hand  that  held  hers, 
tind  smiled  on  him  faintly  with  clear  eyes. 

But  that  little  betrayal  of  feeling  was  not  lost  on  Hervey. 
Closing  the  book,  he  sank  on  his  knees  by  her  couch,  only 
to  bring  himself  nearer  to  her,  and  taking  her  hand  between 
both  his  own,  he  looked  at  her  some  time  without  speaking ; 
then  he  said  : 

"  Dear  Magdalene  !  dear  Magdalene  !  if  I  could  only 
make  you  happy — if  I  could  only  make  you  feel  how  dearer 
than  all  things  else  to  me  is  your  happiness.  Magdalene ! 
Magdalene!  what  can  I  do  for  you?  Four 'soul's  lofty 
gifts'  have  bound  at  least 


RECONCILIATION.  447 

One  true  heart  nnto  yon,  whereon  yonr  own 
Might  find  a  restinjr-place,  a  home  for  all 
Its  burden  of  affections.' 

Oh,  Magdalene,  if  the  gift  of  that  heart  could  only  give  you 
peace — if  its  'immolcUwn  could  purchase  happiness  for 
you  !" 

Magdalene  did  not  reply  in  words,  but  pressed  his  hands 
again,  and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  grateful  love. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  noise  of  some  one  approaching 
the  door  caused  Theodore  to  resume  his  seat.  It  was  the 
nurse,  who  re-entered  the  room,  and  placed  a  card  in  Mr. 
Hervey's  hand.  Theodore  looked  at  it  and  changed  color. 
Magdalene  turned  her  eyes  on  him  with  an  expression  of 
inquiry. 

"  A  visitor,  my  dear  Magdalene,  whom  I  must  see — that 
is  all,"  he  replied,  and  rising,  took  her  hand,  pressed  it, 
dropped  it  again,  and  left  the  room  to  go  to  his  visitor  in 
the  parlor. 

When  Theodore  Hervey  entered  the  parlor,  he  imme- 
diately recognized  the  tall  and  distinguished-looking  indi- 
vidual who  arose  and  advanced  to  meet  him  as  Lord  Cliffe. 
He  instantly  and  cordially  offered  his  hand,  shook  hands 
with  his  lordship,  and  entreated  him  to  resume  his  seat, 
taking  a  chair  at  the  same  time  himself.  Then  he  expressed 
his  pleasure  at  meeting  with  Lord  Cliffe,  hoped  that  he  was 
well,  and  that  he  had  left  the  Washingtons  in  good  health. 
Lord  Cliffe  assured  him  that  the  family  were  in  excellent 
health,  and  that  he  himself  had  quite  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  his  trifling  wound.  Had  any  light  been  thrown 
upon  that  dai'k  subject  ?  Theodore  ventured  to  inquire. 
There  had  not — the  whole  subject  remained  enveloped  in 
mystery ;  his  o\v.n  opinion  was  simply  that  his  assailant  had 
been  some  escaped  bedlamite,  Lord  Cliffe  replied  ;  and  then 
wishing  to  come  at  once  to  the  subject  of  his  visit,  said : 


448  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  You  have,  of  course,  heard  of  the  death  of  General 
Mountjoy  " 

"  Yes — and  I  have  been  led  to  suppose  that  Judge  Wash- 
ington s  intimacy  with  the  family  has  constrained  him  to  be 
very  much  engaged  with  them  just  no-y,  and  has  prevented 
his  replying  to  a  letter  of  considerable  importance  written 
to  him  by  myself  last  week — wiless,  sir,  as  I  am  inclined  to 
hope,  you  bring  a  letter  or  a  verbal  reply  or  notice  of  some 
sort  ?"  said  Hervey. 

"  No,  I  do  not  bring  either  letter  or  message  from  Judge 
Washington,  whom  I  left  quite  taken  up,  as  you  surmised, 
with  the  affairs  of  the  funeral.  Yet,  nevertheless,  my  busi- 
ness to  Boston  is  directly  concerned  with  the  subject  of  that 
letter." 

"  As — in  what  manner,  sir  ? — may  I  be  permitted  to 
ask  ?" 

"  I  must  revert  to  the  subject  of  General  Mountjoy's 
death.  By  his  last  will  and  testament  he  acknowledged 
Magdalene  Mountjoy  as  his  granddaughter — the  legitimate 
daughter  of  his  son,  Victor  Mountjoy  ;  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  trifling  legacies  to  his  sister  and  nieces,  the 
Swans,  he  has  left  her  the  whole  of  his  great  estate,  com- 
prising three  of  the  most  valuable  plantations  in  Virginia. 
He  appointed  Judge  Washington  and  myself  executors  of 
his  will,  and  in  that  character — Judge  Washington  being 
otherwise  engaged — I  have  come  to  Boston  to  look  after 
the  condition  and  welfare  of  the  heiress. " 

Theodore  Hervey  heard  this  at  first  with  great  surprise, 
and  then  his  countenance  became  overcast  with  sadness. 
When  Lord  Cliffe  ceased  to  speak,  and  seemed  waiting  for 
a  comment,  he  observed,  abstractedly  : 

"  Yes,  that  was  but  just — I  am  glad  for  his  sake  that  he 
did  it.  Yet  if  he  had  died  intestate,  the  whole  property 
would  have  been  inherited  by  Magdalene,  his  legal  heiress, 


RECONCILIATION.  *49 

because  the  marriage  of  Victor  Mountjoy  and  Margaret 
Hawk  was  a  fact  that  could  be  well  proved,  while  there  was 
no  proof  of  General  Mountjoy  ever  having  made  the  legal 
demur  that  would  at  any  time  previous  to  the  majority  of 
the  parties  have  annulled  the  marriage.  The  silence  of  the 
parent  or  guardian  is  held  for  consent — if  this  silence  lasts 
up  to  the  time  of  the  majority  of  the  parties,  the  marriage 
is  fully  legalized." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Lord  Cliffe ;  and  then  very  anxious  to 
hear  of  Magdalene,  he  inquired  :  "  Where  is  the  young  lady 
now,  and  what  is  the  present  state  of  her  health  ?  Does  it 
admit  the  possibility  of  her  receiving  a  visitor  ?" 

"  She  is  boarding  at  this  house,  where  she  has  lived  for 
years  while  in  Boston.  Her  health  has  suffered  cruelly,  as 
I  wrote  Judge  Washington.  She  is  convalescent  now — yet 
so  completely  prostrated,  and  withal  so  excitable,  that  her 
case  is  still  so  precarious  as  to  require  the  utmost  vigilance 
and  care  to  keep  her  from  any  agitation  that  might  be  fatal. 
No,  sir,  I  think  that  her  state  does  not  admit  the  visit  of 
one  who  must,  however  involuntarily,  awaken  so  many  pain- 
ful reminiscences  as  yourself." 

Lord  Cliffe  looked  fixedly  on  the  face  of  Mr.  Hervey,  but 
reading  there  nothing  new  or  strange,  he  asked — 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  these  expressions,  Mr.  Hervey  ?" 

"  You  cannot,  if  you,  as  I  suppose,  have  been  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  contents  of  my  letter,  you  cannot  be  at  a 
loss  to  know  that  it  was  the  report  of  your  death  that 
nearly  killed  Miss  Mountjoy — should  you  not  reasonably 
suppose  that  the  sight  of  you  would  agitate  her  greatly, 
in  her  weak  state  fatally ?" 

"  Magdalene  was  not  wont  to  be  so  weak  ?"  said  Lord 
Cliffe,  with  a  spasm  of  remorse  griping  his  heart. 

"No — and  yet  she  was  very  much  attached  to  Virginia. 
You  were  on  the  eve  of  marriage  with  Miss  Washington, 


450  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

and  reported  to  have  been  murdered — I  do  not  know  that 
any  great  weakness  was  betrayed  in  this  acute  sympathy 
with  what  she  supposed  to  be  her  sister's  extreme  anguish." 

"  Did  Magdalene  believe  me  to  be  on  the  eve  of  mar- 
ringe  ?"  asked  Lord  Cliffe,  with  a  strange  blending  of  pain, 
I  egret,  and  doubt  in  the  expression  of  his  fine  countenance. 

"  I  take  it  for  granted  that  she  did." 

"  Yet  you  do  not  know  it — you  never  heard  her  allude 
to  this  reported  marriage  ?" 

"  Never — still  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  she  knew 
all  about  it — the  projected  marriage  was  the  subject  of  com- 
mon rumor." 

"Common  rumor  is  proverbially  mendacious — particu- 
larly so  in  this  instance." 

"  Sir !» 

"  I  was  not  on  the  eve  of  marriage  with  Miss  Washing- 
ton— I  am  not  engaged  to  that  young  lady,  and  have  no 
intention  of  ever  being  so." 

"  You  surprise  me,  sir  !" 

"  So  I  judge.  But  to  change  the  subject — I  must  see 
Magdalene  immediately,  if  possible." 

"  Lord  Cliffe,  I  regret  very  much  the  necessity  of  repeat- 
ing that  it  is  not  possible.  Miss  Mountjoy's  state  is  too 
critical  to  permit  the  least  chance  of  excitement — the  least 
surprise  might  bring  on  a  fatal  relapse." 

"In  that  state  of  affairs  I  must  request  a  favor  of  you — 
that  is,  gradually  and  cautiously  to  prepare  Magdalene  for 
my  visit — for,  as  soon  as  a  due  regard  for  her  health  will 
allow,  I  must  have  an  interview  with  her.  Come,  sir,  when 
shall  I  be  able  to  see  her  ?" 

"  I  fear  that  several  days — perhaps  weeks,  must  first 
elapse,  sir  ?"  replied  Theodore,  coldly,  for  every  moment  he 
was  more  displeased  with  the  deportment  of  his  visitor. 

"Several  days!    a  week!    that  will  not  do  1    that   ?an 


RECONCILIATION.  451 

can  scarcely  be  necessary.  Who  is  Magdalene's  phy- 
sician ?" 

"  The  medical  attendant  of  Miss  Moirnfjny,"  said  Tlieo 
dore,  emi»liaticiilly,  and  by  his  most  respectful  manner  oi 
naming  that  lady  rebuking  Lord  Cliffe's  familiar  mode  oi 
designating  her,  "the  medical  attendant  of  Miss  Mounljoij 
— is  Doctor  Warren." 

"  His  address !"  demanded  his  lordship,  curtly. 

"  No.  3  Washington  street." 

"  I  shall  see  him  immediately  upon  this  subject,"  said 
Lord  Cliffe,  rising,  and  reaching  for  his  hat  to  go. 

"  One  moment,  my  lord  !"  said  Theodore  Hervey,  sud- 
denly, impulsively,  laying  his  hand  upon  Lord  Cliffe's  arm, 
and  arresting  his  steps.  "  One  moment !"  and  throwing  hia 
hand  to  his  brow,  he  paused  an  instant  in  deep  but  rapid 
thought,  as  link  after  link  of  the  "  electric  chain"  of  mem- 
ory and  of  circumstances  flashed  upon  his  mind — revealing 
the  most  painful  possibilities — her  strange  anguish — too 
great !  yes,  much  too  great  to  be  excited  for  a  mere  friend, 
or  the  still  farther  removed  betrothed  of  a  friend  ! — And  then 
his  familiar,  and  sometimes  authoritative  manner.  Were 
they  betrothed  lovers  ?  Were  they — the  next  thought  was 
overwhelming — he  turned  sick  and  pale,  reeled,  held  on  to 
the  back  of  the  chair  for  support,  while  Lord  Cliffe  gazed 
at  him  in  surprise  and  perplexity.  "  Your  pardon,  my 
lord  1"  said  Theodore,  recovering  himself — "sit  down  I  I 
myself  can  scarcely  stand." 

Lord  Cliffe  resumed  his  seat — Theodore  sunk  into  a  chair. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hervey  ?"  said  Lord  Cliffe,  to  recall  him  to 
himself. 

"  Well,  sir  1" 

"  You  detained  me — for  some  purpose,  I  presume  ?" 

"Yes  !"  said  Theodore,  and  ajrain  dropped  his  head  upon 
his  hands — but  then  quickly  arousing  himself  with  an  effort. 


452  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

he  proceeded  to  say — "  Lord  Cliffe,  you  are  going  to  con- 
sult Doctor  Warren,  and  it  is  likely  that  he  will  tell  you 
that  an  interview  with  a  casual  visitor,  on  mere  business, 
may  not  be  dangerous  to  Miss  Mountjoy's  serenity,  and 
therefore  to  her  life.  But  you  can  best  judge  for  yourself, 
whether  you  are  nothing  more  than  a  casual  visitor — 
whether  your  interview  with  her  will  be  likely  to  disturb  her 
quietude  or  not."  He  paused,  in  some  embarrassment. 

"  To  what  does  all  this  tend,  Mr.  Hervey  ?'  inquired  his 
lordship. 

"  Sir,  I  do  not  know  what  your  relations  with  Miss 
Mountjoy  have  been,  may  be  now,  or  are  about  to  be — but 
this  I  do  know — that  if  in  your  mutual  experience  there  is 
any  exciting  circumstance  likely  to  be  brought  to  mind, 
during  your  intercourse  with  her — that  interview  would  in- 
evitably be  fatal  to  her :"  and  so,  in  his  deep  anxiety,  Theo- 
dore truly  believed.  "  Yon  know  best  now,  whether,  even 
with  the  doctor's  permission,  you  can  visit  Miss  Mountjoy 
or  not." 

Lord  Cliffe  remained  quiet,  and  in  profound  thought  for 
Borne  time.  Then  he  arose,  and  slowly  and  thoughtfully 
paced  up  and  down  the  room.  Finally,  he  resumed  his 
seat,  and  said,  earnestly — 

"  I  must  see  Magdalene !  To  be  within  a  few  feet  of  her, 
and  not  to  see  her,  is  intolerable  !  I  must  see  Magdalene  ! 
I  must  be  introduced  into  her  chamber  while  she  sleeps, 
that  I  may  gaze  on  her!  Do  you  hear  me,  Mr.  Hervey?" 

"I  hear  you,  sir!" 

"  Yet  you  say  nothing  in  assent !  I  tell  you  that  I  must 
and  will  see  Magdalene !  Do  you  mark  !" 

"  Forgive  me,  Lord  Cliffe,  if,  as  Miss  Mountjoy's  oldest 
friend,  I  inquire  by  what  right  you  demand  this  privilege !" 

"I  might,  perhaps,  merely  cite  a  precedent  in  yourself! 
I  might  say  that  yi.u  have  passed  hours  in  watching  by  the 


RECONCILIATION.  455 

sick  bed  of  Magdalene !  I  might  go  further,  and  demand 
opon  what  pretense  you  claimed  the  privilege  of  attendance 
upon  her." 

"  And  I  should  reply,  my  lord,"  said  Theodore,  as  a 
dark  flush  rose  to  his  brow — "  I  should  reply — by  the 
sacred  privilege  of  old  friendship,  and  of  my  holy  cloth  1" 

"  Oh  !  your  holy  cloth  !"  interrupted  Lord  Cliffe,  with 
the  first  rude  sarcasm  he  had  ever  indulged. 

"  Yes,  sir !  my  holy  cloth  !  however  unworthy  its  present 
wearer  may  be — is  a  passport  to  the  chamber  of  man, 
woman,  or  child,  whose  sufferings  demand  sympathy  and 
relief.  A  minister's  place  is  certainly  by  the  sick-bed  and 
the  death-bed — thus  it  was — and — "  added  Theodore,  with 
a  faltering  voice — "  because  she  had  no  other  friend  to  care 
for  her,  I  took  the  place. " 

As  Lord  Cliffe  looked  at  him  now,  and  noted  the  pale  and 
hollow  cheeks,  and  hollow  eyes,  and  the  slight  fragile  form, 
involuntarily  contrasting  it  with  his  own  vigorous  and  ath- 
letic figure — and  as  he  thought  of  this  frail  and  delicate  man, 
so  much  needing  rest  and  support  himself,  devoting  himself 
day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  for  many  long  weeks, 
with  a  perfect  love,  to  the  service  of  another — and  when  he 
thought  how  fruitless  all  this  would  be  to  him,  and  how  soon 
the  object  of  his  pure  love  would  be  snatched  from  him — all 
acrid  jealousy  and  unworthy  anger  melted  from  his  heart,  and 
he  felt  a  good  impulse  to  do  what  in  the  position  of  affairs 
was  perfectly  right — to  confide  the  truth  to  this  most 
estimable  young  minister.  Perhaps  in  another  hour  Lord 
Cliffe  would  not  have  been  governed  by  such  an  impulse. 
However,  now  he  arose,  and  laying  his  hand  most  offec- 
tionately  upon  Theodore  Hervey's  shoulder,  he  said,  in  an 
earnest  manner, 

••  Mr.  Hervey !  believe  me,  I  am  most  profoundly  and 
fervently  grateful  to  you  for  your  devotion  to  Magdalem>. 


454  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

In  her  name,  and  in  my  own,  I  thank  you  most  earnestly. 
By  your  devotion  to  her,  you  have  very  seriously  impaired 
your  own  health,  I  fear.  Now  you  must  rest  from  your 
toil.  And  if  you  are  superseded  in  your  labor  of  love — 
think  that  it  is  only  by  one  whoso  duty,  as  well  as  inclina- 
tion, calls  him  to  the  post — "  lie  paused. 

"By  Miss  Mountjoy's  guardian,  perhaps  you  mean,  sir  I" 
said  Hervey,  without  raising  his  head,  as  he  leaned  upon 
his  hand. 

"By  Lady  Cliffe's  husband." 

As  if  he  had  been  struck  with  death,  Theodore  turned 
ghastly  white — his  hands  dropped,  and  his  head  fell  back. 
Lord  Cliffe  raised  one  of  those  cold  hands  and  pressed  it 
earnestly;  and  then  seeming  not  to  notice  his  extreme  dis- 
tress, for  he  had  great  faith  in  his  ultimate  power  of  self- 
control — he  went  on  to  say — 

"Yes,  Magdalene  is  my  wife.  You  were  very  justly 
surprised  and  offended  because  I  called  her  'Magdalene' — 
and  still  'Magdalene' — repeatedly — even  after  you  had,  by 
your  example,  emphatically  rebuked  me.  The  reason  was, 
that  I  could  not  bear  to  call  my  wife  by  her  maiden  appel- 
lation. Theodore !  hear  me  further.  We  were  married 
privately,  at  a  village  just  out  of  Norfolk,  more  than  four 
years  ago.  She  spent  a  year  in  traveling  over  the  Eastern 
continent  with  me — then,  for  causes  not  now  necessary  to 
repeal,  we  separated — I  going  to  England — she,  after  a 
little  while,  returning  here.  Yet,  Theodore,  though  we 
were  married  and  lived  together  more  than  twelve  months 
— yet  there  was  a  slight  informality  in  the  license  that 
would — were  either  of  us  now  disposed  to  use  it  for  that 
purpose — render  our  marriage  invalid.  Do  you  attend  tu 
me,  Mr.  Hervey?" 

"  Yes!  yes!  I  hear!" 

"  Well,  then,  what  I  wish  is — my  privilege  »f  seeing  my 


RECONCILIATION.  455 

wife,  of  watching  by  her  while  she  sleeps,  of  making 
my  presence  known  to  her  as  soon  as  it  may  be  safe  to 
do  so." 

"  You  are  not  now  under  the  laws  of  Virginia !  You 
ere  in  Massachusetts  now  1  You  have  acknowledged, 
mind!  You  have  acknowledged  to  me,  that  this  lady  is 
your  wife.  That  binds  you  !  I  will  keep  you  to  that !" 
said  Theodore  emphatically — mindful  of  Magdalene's  inter- 
ests, though  his  own  heart  was  breaking. 

"  My  dear  Hervey !  you  cannot  do  me  a  greater  service  ! 
Nay,  you  shall  bind  me  even  faster! — fast  as  State  arxd 
Church  can  bind  me  1  As  soon  as  Magdalene  is  suffici- 
ently convalescent  to  bear  the  scene,  you  shall  unite  us  by 
the  irrevocable  rites  of  your  own  Liturgy  !" 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  that  must  be  done  ! — that  must  certainly 
be  done !  I  myself  must  do  it !"  exclaimed  Theodore, 
almost  wildly,  as  he  arose  with  the  intention  of  leaving 
the  room  for  some  unknown  purpose,  but  before  he 
had  advanced  three  steps  toward  the  door,  he  reeled  and 
fell! 

Lord  Cliffe  sprang  to  him,  raised  him,  bore  him  lifeless 
to  the  sofa,  laid  him  there,  and  rang  the  bell  for  assistance. 

Theodore  Hervey  was  confined  to  his  bed  by  extreme  ill- 
ness for  a  week.  In  the  meantime,  Lord  Cliffe  had  con- 
ferred with  the  physician — telling  him  only  so  much  of  his 
story  as  he  deemed  strictly  necessary — much  less  than  he 
had  imparted  to  Theodore  Hervey — and  obtained  the  right 
of  entrance  into  the  sick  chamber.  It  was  the  afternoon  of 
the  same  day,  while  Magdalene  was  sleeping,  that  he  was 
admitted  to  see  her.  The  room  was  very  quiet  and  partially 
darkened,  for  the  better  re-pose  of  the  patient.  He  entered, 
attended  only  by  the  nurse,  who  did  not  accompany  him  to 
the  bedside.  He  approached  with  an  awed  manner  and 


456  THE     TWO     SISTER^. 

stealthy  steps,  to  gaze  upon  the  beautiful  and  unconscious 
sleeper.  He  bent  over  her.  The  sight  of  his  Magdalene 
lying  there,  helpless,  prostrate,  unconscious — so  pale,  sc 
very  pale — the  wan  hue  of  her  face,  made  deathlike  by  the 
contrast  of  her  jet-black  hair  flowing  down  each  side,  and 
the  jet-black  eyebrows  and  eyelashes  resting  on  her  cheeks 
—the  sight  of  her,  so  beautiful  even  in  ruins — awoke  the 
deepest  love  of  his  soul ;  the  deeper,  stronger,  more  earnest 
and  fervent  for  the  remorse — the  remorse  that  must  have 
been  very  bitter,  but  for  the  purpose  and  hope  of  compen- 
sating all  her  past  and  present  sufferings,  and  making  her 
life  happy.  Yet,  notwithstanding  his  predominating  hopes, 
he  gazed  at  her  with  an  almost  broken  heart — for  there  was 
still  uncertainty,  doubt,  and  fear — she  was  so  fearfully 
changed. 
Death  itself, 

"  Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers, 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers. " 

could  scarcely  produce  a  greater  change! 

Where  was  now  that  fine  complexion,  that  firm  elasticity 
of  muscle,  that  grand  contour  of  form,  that  great  strength, 
which  must  have  been  repellant  but  for  its  exceeding  beauty, 
that  glorious  vitality  which  was  the  great  charm  and  power 
of  the  wonderfully-endowed  woman  ? 

Oh,  gone,  gone ! 

And  what  had  destroyed  such  a  wondrous  work  of  the 
Creator  ?  And  what  in  earth  or  heaven  could  restore  it  ? 

All  that  was  left  now  of  that  marvelous  life  and  strength 
and  beauty,  seemed  nothing  but  a  magnificent  ruin. 

The  deep  groan  that  escaped  his  lips  was  an  upheaving 
of  the  profoundest  depths  of  his  soul. 

That  groan  disturbed  the  sleeper.  She  sighed  in  her 
sleep,  and  slightly  moved  one  thin,  transparent  hand,  as 
with  an  involuntary  gesture  of  deprecation. 


RECONCILIATION.  457 

Lord  Cliffe,  fearing  that  she  would  awake,  retired  'rora 
the  bedside. 

Then  he  heard  her  move  and  murmur  in  a  low  tone — how 
the  first  soft  sound  of  her  voice  thrilled  upon  his  heart ! 
She  was  awake — she  spoke  to  the  nurse,  who  immediately 
approached  the  bed. 

Lord  Cliffe  retired  from  the  room. 

Again  he  sought  the  physician. 

"  Can  she  recover  ?" 

"Yes,  with  careful  nursing." 

"  I  will  nurse  her  myself — I  will  never  leave  her,  except 
for  her  benefit ;  will  she,  can  she  be  fully  restored  ?  Will 
she  ever  be  her  former  self?" 

"  She  has  the  finest  constitution  I  ever  met  with  in  man, 
woman,  or  child  ;  but  it  takes  years  to  repair  such  an  injury 
as  she  has  sustained — years  of  great  care — " 

"  That  shall  be  my  work  !  Only  tell  me  that  years  and 
care  can  restore  Magdalene  to  her  former  glorious  self,  and, 
with  that  hope  before  me,  years  shall  not  weary  my  patience, 
nor  care  fatigue  me  in  the  task,"  said  Lord  Cliffe,  forgetting, 
in  the  intensity  of  his  emotion,  his  usual  quiet  and  reserved 
manner. 

He  took  up  his  abode  at  the  hotel.  Whenever  Magda- 
lene slept  during  the  day,  he  took  the  nurse's  place  by  her 
side,  vacating  it  only  when  she  moved  as  if  about  to  awake. 

The  second  day  of  Theodore  Hervey's  absence,  just  as  he 
was  leaving  the  room,  he  heard  her  ask  for  Mr.  Hervey,  and 
heard  the  nurse's  evasive  reply  that  he  was  confined  to  his 
lodgings  by  a  slight  indisposition.  Thus  a  week  passed  on, 
when  at  last,  one  day,  Lord  Cliffe  thought  that  his  presence 
at  her  bedside  had  very  nearly  been  discovered  by  Magda- 
lene. It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  day  that  she  was  sleep- 
ing, and  he,  as  usual,  sitting  by  her  side.  The  shutters  were 
closed,  and  even  the  heavy  lined  curtains  let  down,  the 


458  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

more  effectually  to  keep  out  the  glare  of  the  noonday  sun. 
The  room  was.  therefore,  even  darker  than  usual ;  but  from 
having  sat  there  an  hour,  his  eyes  had  become  accustomed 
to  the  obscurity,  and  he  could  see  things  tolerably  well. 
He  sat  gazing  in  mournful  admiration  upon  the  marblclike, 
majestic  face,  darkly  shadowed  by  the  magnificent  sweep 
of  ebon  hair,  when  suddenly  the  long  black  eyelashes,  rest- 
ing so  deathlike  upon  the  snowy  cheeks,  began  to  quiver, 
and  then  the  grand,  profound,  dark  eyes  were  open,  and 
gazing  dreamily,  mournfully,  lovingly  upon  him  ! 

He  shrank  into  the  shadow  of  the  deep  chair,  and  turn- 
ing stealthily  away,  glided  from  the  room,  with  her  gaze 
haunting  his  vision — her  gaze  full  of  vague,  dreamy  mem- 
ory, love,  compassion,  deprecation — all  blended  in  shadowy 
mysticism,  like  thoughts  in  sleep,  or  clouds  at  night.  He 
paused  at  the  door,  but  he  was  not  recalled — he  heard  no 
slightest  disturbance,  until  he  just  caught  her  low  tones  in- 
quiring calmly  of  the  nurse  whether  she  knew  if  .Mr.  Hervey 
were  better,  and  the  reply  that  he  was  better,  and  out,  and 
that  he  was  even  then  awaiting  the  end  of  her  nap,  to  pay 
her  a  visit. 

"  Let  him  come  in,  then,  soon." 

Then  Lord  Cliffe,  congratulating  himself  that  he  hud 
withdrawn  before  she  had  been  sufficiently  wide  awake  to 
recognize  him,  left  the  door,  first  with  the  thought  of  imme- 
diately seeking  Mr.  Hervey,  and  requesting  him,  during  his 
approaching  interview  with  Magdalene,  to  prepare  her  to 
receive  his  visit — but  then,  with  a  delicate  consideration  for 
Theodore's  present  condition  and  state  of  feeling,  he  gov- 
erned his  impatience  and  resolved  to  wait  quietly  until  the 
next  day. 

He  met  Mr.  Hervey  in  the  parlor,  and  grasping  his  hand 
warmly,  expressed  the  earnest  gratification  he  felt  at  seeing 
him  recovered. 


RECONCILIATION.  459 

Mr.  Ilcrvey  thanked  him,  and  inquired,  with  a  composed 
manner,  if  he  had  just  left  Magdalene.  Lord  Cliffe  re- 
plied in  the  affirmative. 

"  How  has  she  been  for  the  past  week  ?  How  seems  sh« 
now  ?" 

"  Still  better,  and  mending  daily.  Her  voice  this  morn- 
ing was  much  stronger  than  it  was  the  first  day  of  my  ar- 
rival." 

'•  She  has  not  been  apprized  of  your  arrival  yet,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  though  to-day — even  now — she  was  very  near  dis- 
covering it,  very  unexpectedly,"  and  Lord  Cliffe  related  to 
him  all  that  occurred. 

Theodore  remained  in  silent  thought  a  little  while,  and 
then  said, 

"  Lord  Cliffe,  I  will  see  Magdalene  this  afternoon,  and 
judge  of  her  condition.  If  I  think  it  safe,  I  will  cau- 
tiously apprize  her  of  your  presence  in  the  house.  It  is 
better  that  it  should  be  done  as  soon  as  possible.  The 
shock  of  a  sudden  di-covery,  in  her  critical  state,  would  in- 
evitably be  fatal,  and  of  such  a  shock  she  is  in  continual 
•lunger  while  yon  watch  her  sleep.  When  once  she  knows 
tliiit  yon  are  here,  we  having  nothing  more  to  fear — and  she 
with  her  mind  so  perfectly  at  rest,  must  recover  health  and 
strength  with  great  celerity.  I  can  scarcely  believe,  how- 
ever, in  your  having  been  so  very  near  her  for  a  week  with- 
itit  her  being  in  some  measure  already  prepared  to  hear, 
vithont  great  surprise,  of  your  presence  in  the  house 

'ifit  one  can  imagine  without  being  a  convert  to  the 
•  '•iii'f  in  the  subtile  communion  of  spirits  either.  Yes  ! 
it'  h<*  state  will  possibly  admit  it,  I  must  tell  her  this  after- 
noon." 

"  I  thank  you,  Hervey ;  that  is  my  desire.  Yet  I  should 
not  have  asked  it  of  you  to-day." 

Theodore  smiled  a  sad  smile — that  said  as  plain  as  words 


460  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

could  speak — "The  bitterness  of  death,  hDpe's  death,  is 
already  past !  I  have  nothing  new  to  suffer." 

Both  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  Mr.  Hervey 
repeated — "  Yes,  I  will,  if  possible,  tell  her  to-day — and 
then  as  soon  as  may  be,  after  that — " 

"  You  will  remarry  us  by  the  ceremony  of  the  Protest- 
ant Episcopal  Church." 

Again  silence  fell  between  them,  and  then  Mr.  Hervey 
extending  his  hand  to  the  table  beside  him,  gathered  up 
some  letters  and  papers  that  lay  scattered  there,  and  said — 

"  I  have  letters  of  much  interest  and  importance  from 
Judge  Washington — perhaps  your  lordship  has  received 
similar  communications  ?" 

"No;  I  have  not  lately  heard  from  Judge  Washington." 

"  I  think  then  that  you  must  hear  from  him  soon,  on  very 
important  business." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  Judge  Washington  is  aware  of  my 
present  address. " 

Mr.  Hervey  looked  surprised  at  this  observation,  but 
made  no  comment. 

"  As  you  have  alluded  to  the  interest  and  importance  of 
the  Judge's  communications,  and  hinted  that  they  nearly 
concerned  myself,  may  I  be  permitted  to  inquire  into  their 
nature  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Judge  Washington  writes  me  that  the  fune- 
ral of  General  Mountjoy  being  over,  he  was  about  to  reply 
to  my  communications  concerning  Magdalene,  by  hastening 
hither  in  person,  the  more  especially  as  by  the  will  of  her 
grandfather,  General  Mountjoy,  she  was  left  the  sole  heir- 
ess of  his  estates,  and  he  himself  appointed  executor.  ,But 
— he  goes  on  to  say,— just  as  he  was  about  to  set  out  for  the 
North,  he  received  sudden  information  of  the  arrest  of  the 
suspected  assailant  of  your  lordship  in  the  vicinity  of 
Prospect  Hall,  which  has  called  him  in  haste  to  that  neigh- 


RECONCILIATION.  461 

borhood.  I  presume,  sir,  that  as  soon  as  your  address  is> 
known  to  your  friends,  you  will  be  called  to  appear  and 
identify  the  man,  if  you  have  not  already  been  summoned." 

:'No  ;  I  repeat,  1  have  heard  nothing  from  Judge  Wash- 
ington, or  from  any  one  else  in  Virginia.  This  is  ray  first 
knowledge  of  the  arrest.  I,  myself,  however,  am  fully  im- 
pressed with  the  idea  that  my  assailant  was  a  madman. 
Such,  I  am  certain,  will,  upon  investigation,  prove  to  be  the 
truth.  Has  any  new  light  been  thrown  upon  this  dark  sub- 
ject by  the  arrest  ?  Does  Judge  Washington  say  ?" 

Theodore  Hervey  changed  color,  and  replied  in  a  low 
and  solemn  voice. 

"  Yes.  A  very  fearful  light  has  been  thrown  upon  a  much 
darker  and  deeper  crime  long  enveloped  in  mystery,  a  crime 
so  black  and  so  atrocious,  that  even  at  twenty  years'  distance 
the  soul  shudders  to  recall  its  memory — the  unprovoked 
and  cruel  destruction  of  the  most  lovely  and  loving,  child- 
like, saintlike  woman  that  ever  lived  on  earth  to  give  ua 
faith  in  angels." 

"  Mary  Washington !  You  mean  Mary  Washington. 
But  how — what — twenty  years  ago — twenty  years  between 
the  acts.  What  can  the  two  circumstances  have  in  con- 
nection ?  Pray  explain  yourself." 

"  Your  assailant  and  the  long  undiscovered  murderer 
of  Mary  Washington,  are  supposed  to  be  the  same  man — " 

"And  he—" 

"  Has  been  arrested  through  the  persevering  vigilance 

of  Adam  Hawk,  and  is  now  in  the  county  jail  of 

county." 

"But  his  name — his  motive — who  is  he?  What  in  the 
name  of  God  could  have  been  his  motive,  if,  indeed,  all  this 
is  not  an  error,  as  I  really  think  it  must  prove  to  be  ?  My 
assailant,  I  repeat  it  emphatically,  was  a  lunatic." 

"  Lunatic  he   might  have  been  when   he  assailed  you — 


*fi2  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

no  lunatic.  I  imagine,  when  he  destroyed  Mary  Washing- 
ion." 

"  But  his  name — who  is  he  ?" 

"  A  fugitive  slave  of  the  late  Colonel  Carey,  who  ab- 
sconded from  his  master's  plantation  more  than  twenty 
years  ago,  who  was  supposed  to  be  dead,  but  who  has,  in 
reality,  been  a  vagabond  and  a  wanderer  on  the  earth  with 
the  mark  of  Cain  upon  his  brow.  Circumstances  have 
lately  transpired  that  have  resulted  in  this  discovery  of  his 
life,  and  his  .crimes,  and  in  his  arrest." 

"  Hut  his  purpose  ;  his  purpose  in  the  fiendish  act  ?" 

"  VENGEANCE  !" 

"Against  whom?  Not  the  sweet,  gentle,  and  chililiike 
woman  he  destroyed?  Not  against  me,  who  never  injured 
him?" 

"  Against  A  FAMILY — against  all  who  bore  the  name  of 
CAREY.  It  is  one  of  those  awful  instances  of  demoniac 
passion,  of  hellish  malignity,  that  can  only  boil  forever  in 
the  lav  alike  MIXED  BLOOD — in  the  volcanic  bosom  of  a 

MULATTO  !" 

"  Hut  this  grows  more  and  more  inexplicable.  IL>w  is 
it  ;  ossible  that  the  humane  and  upright  Colonel  Carey,  or 
iinv  of  his  estimable  family,  could  have  provoked  such  a 
fiendish  spirit  of  hate  and  revenge  ?" 

"  It  is  a  very  revolting  story.     I  recollect  hiving  heard  it 

hen  a  boy,  and  its  having  made  a  very  painful'  impressim 

>ou    iic-  at  the  time.      Corporal  punishment  is  of  very  rnr 

.iiTrnce    on    the    plantations    in    my   native    sicii   n    of 

'iiiniry.     It  has  never  been  allowed  to  take  place  on  Jinlut 

Washington's  estate.     It  has   never,  except,  in   one  single 

instance,  been  resorted  to  on  Colonel's  Carey's  plantation. 

Then  it  was  inflicted  without  the  orders,  and  even  without 

lhe    knowledge  of  the   master,  in    his  absence  ;    and  was  an 

abuse  of  delegated   authority  by  the   then   uew  overseer, 


RECONCILIATION.  463 

Adam  Hawk,  a  man  proverbial  for  sternness  and  harshness 
of  disposition  and  character;  and  ihe  subject  of  the  dis- 
graceful punishment  was  Abram  Pepper,  a  young  mulatto 
slave  of  Colonel  Carey's.  In  his  superintendence  of  the 
farm  hands,  Adam  Hawk  was  severe,  but  generally  just, 
He  appears  to  have  had  little  difficulty,  however,  in  the 
management  of  the  negroes,  except  in  the  case  of  this 
young  mulatto,  who  was  of  a  very  insubordinate  temper. 
One  day,  during  the  absence  of  Colonel  Carey  in  Rich- 
mond, in  busy  harvest  times,  the  plantation  being  left  under 
the  exclusive  care  of  the  new  overseer,  Abram  Pepper  re- 
fused to  go  to  work.  Adam  Hawk  sternly  ordered  him 
off  to  the  field.  Abram,  with  an  oath,  swore  that  he  would 
not  go.  The  overseer  enraged,  threa  ened.  The  negro, 
in  a  fury,  defied  him  to  do  his  worst.  A  very  violent  and 
disgraceful  scene  ensued,  which  was  ended  by  Adam  Hawk, 
who,  with  his  accustomed  prompt  severity  of  measures,  o'id 
a  thiiig  that  hud  never  before  degraded  the  domestic  gov- 
ernment of  Colonel  Carey's  household — inflicted  the  pun- 
ishment of  the  lash  upon  the  culprit.  When  overpowered, 
the  mulatto  no  longer  resisted,  but  submitted  with  a  dogged 
resignation.  He  went  to  his  work,  he  never  used  a  threat, 
never  spoke  a  word,  dined  with  the  hands  as  usual,  went 
to  work  in  the  afternoon,  supped  with  them,  went  to  bed. 
No  one  suspected  him  of  his  immediate  intention  of  run- 
ning away,  or  of  his  darker,  deeper  purpose  of  vengeance. 
The  next  morning,  however,  he  was  missed  from  his  post  ; 
and  though  every  possible  search  on  the  premises  and 
throughout  the  neighborhood  was  made  for  him,  he  was 
never  afterward  seen  upon  the  plantation.  The  third  day 
after  his  flight,  Colonel  Carey  returned  home  and  heard  of 
the  insubordination  of  his  servant,  of  the  unprecedented 
punishment  inflicted  by  his  overseer,  of  the  flight  of  the 
mulatto,  and  finally  of  the  exceeding  great  unpopularity 


4:6*  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

of  Adam  Hawk  by  reason  of  all  this.  Colonel  Carey  sum- 
moned his  overseer  to  his  presence — heard  Ms  statement 
of  the  affair — and  then  paid  him  his  salary  up  to  the  end 
of  the  year — and  dismissed  him  from  his  service,  giving  as 
his  reason  that  he  could  not  conscientiously  retain  in  au- 
thority over  his  people  a  man  who  had  abused  his  power 
by  such  a  loathsome  act  of  severity,  and  who,  in  conse- 
^uence  of  that  act,  had  become  an  object  of  such  strong 
and  natural  aversion  to  the  people  over  whom  he  had  ruled. 
Subsequently  hearing  that  Judge  Washington  was  in  want 
of  an  overseer,  and  not  wishing  that  Adam  Hawk,  and 
especially  his  wife,  who  was  the  nurse  of  his  only  daughter, 
should  suffer  want  from  the  loss  of  his  situation,  Colonel 
Carey  sought  Judge  Washington,  and  after  telling  him  the 
cause  of  Adam  Hawk's  dismissal  from  his  own  service, 
strongly  recommended  him  as  a  very  efficient  manager. 
Finally,  Judge  Washington,  premising  that  no  such  abuse 
of  power  would  be  tolerated  on  his  premises,  engaged 
Adam  Hawk.  But  this  is  slightly  apart  from  the  main 
subject  of  my  account — Abram  Pepper.  Years  after  thi'j 
occurrence,  when  the  mulatto  was  supposed  to  be  lost  or 
dead,  Captain  Carey,  the  only  son  of  Colonel  Carey,  was 
waylaid  and  murdered,  no  one  could  surmise  by  whom 
Not  a  soul  then  suspected  that  the  long-missing  mulatto 
was,  in  the  least,  concerned  in  the  crime.  His  death,  you 
have  already  heard,  broke  Colonel  Carey's  heart ;  he  did 
not  survive  the  loss  of  his  only  and  much- beloved  soil  two 
months.  A  year  and  a  half  from  that  time,  the  young, 
beautiful,  and  most  amiable  Mary  Washington,  the  only 
daughter  and  sole  remaining  child  of  Colenel  Carey,  waa 
mysteriously  assassinated.  Still  no  one,  except  one  negro, 
who  kept  silence,  suspected  the  mulatto.  How,  indeed, 
should  they  ?  He  had  used  no  threats  before  his  flight, 
and  now  he  was  quite  forgotten.  All  the  efforts  of  the 


RECONCILIATION.  465 

police  to  discover  the  assassin  were  vain  Judge  Wash- 
ington, you  remember,  unable  to  bear  the  painful  associa- 
tions of  Prospect  Plains,  removed,  with  all  his  family,  to 
his  new  plantation  on  Sunny  Isle.  There  his  family  con- 
tinued to  reside  for  ten  years,  he  himself  coining  and  going 
between  the  island  and  the  main  land  as  his  duty  or  incli- 
nation called  him.  I  think  that,  under  Providence,  it  is 
chiefly  attributable  to  her  residence  on  the  Isle  that  Vir- 
ginia escaped  falling  a  victim  to  this  secret  and  deadly 
hatred  against  her  whole  family." 

Here  the  further  speech  of  Theodore  Hervey  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  entrance  of  Magdalene's  nurse,  who  an- 
nounced that  her  patient  was  awake,  and  waiting  to  receive 
Mr.  Hervey.  Theodore  immediately  arose,  bowed  to  Lord 
Cliffe,  and  followed  the  woman  up-stairs. 

When  Mr.  Hervey  entered  the  chamber,  he  found  Mag- 
dalene sitting  up  in  an  easy  chair,  looking  so  much  better, 
that  he  started  with  a  sudden  emotion  of  surprise  and 
pleasure. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  smiling  most  affectionately 
And  oh,  as  that  old  familiar  smile  beamed  upon  him,  his 
heart  stood  still,  his  brain  reeled.  He  recovered  himself, 
and  going  to  her,  took  her  offered  hand,  answered  her  smile 
with  another  smile,  and  said,  in  tones  calm,  because  they 
were  very  low  : 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  up  at  last,  my  dear  Magdalene 
Is  this  the  first  time  you  have  risen  ?"  and  as  he  asked  this 
question,  he  drew  a  chair  to  her  side,  and  seated  himself 
in  it. 

"No  ;  yesterday  I  rose  for  the  first  time,  and  sat  up  an 
hour  in  the  forenoon  ;  this  morning  I  sat  up  an  hour,  and 
I  am  jnst  up  now  for  the  second  time  to-day.  To-rnorrow 
I  hope  to  be  able  to  sit  up  all  day.  Dear  friend,  I  am 


466  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

getting  well  fast.  But  you,  Theodore — you  nave  been  ill. 
Your  looks  show  that,  indeed.  What  has  been  the  matter  ? 
and  how  are  you  now  ?  Quite  restored,  I  hope  ?" 

Magdalene  spoke  in  a  low,  slow,  even  voice,  such  as  she 
aiight  indulge  in  with  safety. 

Theodore  paused  a  moment,  with  his  hand  before  his 
brow,  and  then  replied  : 

"  My  head  has  been  affected — I  am  better  now.  But  we 
will  talk  of  yourself,  dear  Magdalene  :  how  have  you  been 
employed  here  in  your  sick  room  during  the  week  of  my 
absence  ?" 

A  strange  smile  passed  over  Magdalene's  countenance — 
she  passed  her  hand  before  her  brow,  and  replied,  slowly  : 

"  In  reveries,  dreams,  visions." 

"Your  childhood's  habits  recurring,  Magdalene?" 

"  No,  not  exactly.  Yet  those  childhood's  visions  and 
presentiments — great  God  !  how  nearly  they  have  been  ful- 
filled !"  exclaimed  she,  shudering,  and  turning  paler  than 
before. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Magdalene  ?" 

"Nothing — I  mean — I  am  confused — something  that  I 
will  tell  yon,  perhaps,  some  day.  When  I  can  bear  it — 
when  I  can  bear  it.  But,  Theodore,  I  believe  in  presenti- 
ments, though  not  as  the  credulous  generally  accept  them." 

"  How,  dear  Magdalene  ?" 

"  I  lielieve  that  some  orders  of  mind  in  some  of  their  own 
peculiar  phases,  have  the  power  of  perceiving,  vaguely  it  may 
be.  mystically  it  may  be,  as  through  a  glass  darkly,  the 
shadows  of  the  mighty  tilings  in  the  far-off  future.  I  think 
thai  these  sudden  shades  of  indefinable  melancholy,  '  that 
ovtTCouie  us  like  a  summer  cloud,' may  indeed  be  caused  by 
Slum-thing  in  the  unknown  and  distant  future.  But,  in  this 
respect,  my  faith  in  presentiments  differs  from  that  of 
others.  1  lliiuk  they  arise  as  warnings,  not  as  prophecies 


RECONCILIATION.  467 

They  do  not  indicate  an  irreversible  doom  ;  they  point  out 
dangers  in  the  dark,  unseen  future — dangers  that  we  may 
pray  against  and  strive  against — dangers  that  God  may 
avert.  You  will  smile  that  I  should  be  reasoning  upon 
that  which  is  commonly  regarded  as  the  merest  superstition 
— so,  however,  I  never  did  regard  it.  I  believe  presenti- 
ment to  be  a  'more  refined  and  certain  perception  of  unde- 
veloped PROBABILITIES,  and  not  prophecies  of  predes;i;ied, 
immutable  fate.  All  my  childhood's  years,  Theodore,  were 
darkened  by  a  fearful  presentiment,  arising,  I  know,  from  a 
profound,  inherent,  UNDEVELOPED  SELF-KNOWLEDGE — akin 
to  prophecy  ;  and  oh,  my  God,  how  nearly  it  has  been  ful- 
filled. The  shadow  of  the  cloud  that  has  since  broken  over 
my  head.  But  the  storm  has  passed,  the  darkest  peril  is  over." 

She  paused  from  weariness  or  thoughtfulness,  while  Theo- 
dore held  her  hand,  and  watched  her  countenance.  That 
anxious  examination  was  satisfactory;  he  saw  that  she  was, 
indeed,  very  much  stronger — he  thought  that  she  might 
soon  bear  to  hear  the  communications  he  had  to  make;  but 
to  win  her  away  from  the  grave,  even  gloomy  subject  of  her 
thoughts,  he  said  : 

"  You  say  your  lonely  reveries  and  dreams  of  the  past 
week  have  been  unlike  those  of  your  childhood  ?  I  think, 
judging  from  your  improvement,  they  have  been  more  plea- 
sant." 

Magdalene  raised  her  eyes  to  him  with  a  smile,  and  said : 

"Yes,  1  will  even  tell  you  all  about  it.  Do  you  know 
that,  for  a  week  past,  I  have  been  the  victim  of  an  opln  a.1 
illusion?  And  one  of  so  agreeable  a  nature,  that,  like  a 
pleasant,  dream,  or  rather  a  succession  of  pleasant  dreams, 
its  effect  upon  me  lias  been  restorative." 

Theodore  started — a  light  of  the  truth  concerning  this 
optical  illusion  flashed  into  his  mind.  Magdalene,  watch- 
ing him,  continued : 


468  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Yes — is  it  not  singular  ?  I  suppose  it  is  my  long,  long 
illness,  and  the  state  of  my  nerves,  that  have  caused  this 
pleasant  illusion — for  it  is,  oh  !  very,  very  satisfying,  though 
it  is  but  an  illusion  !" 

"Well,  dear  Magdalene?" 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you.  I  had  a  friend — a  very  dear 
friend — a  bosom  friend — another  self;  I  had  an  unhappy 
feud  with  this  friend  of  my  soul — a  feud  that  drove  me  mad 
for  years.  Lately  I  heard  that  he  had  met  a  violent  death 
• — it  was  that  which  caused  my  severe  illness.  Then  I 
heard  it  contradicted — he  lived — and  it  was  that  which 
caused  my  recovery.  Since  that,  I  have  lain  and  dreamed 
of  seeing  my  friend,  as  the  bereaved  dream  of  the  dead 
alive,  for  I  knew  that  I  should  never  see  him  again  in  the 
flesh — a  gulf,  deep  and  dark  as  death  separates  us.  Well, 
but  think  !  the  last  day  you  were  here — the  day  upon  which 
you  were  reading  Mrs.  Hemans'  poems  to  me,  you  recol- 
lect?— a  week  ago  it  was — I  fell  into  a  light  slumber  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  after  a  little  while,  awaking,  I  saw,  as 
plainly  as  if  he  had  really  been  there,  ray  friend  sitting  by 
me,  gazing,  with  eyes  full  of  affection,  upon  me — and  as  I 
moved  the  vision  glided  away  !  Well,  every  day  at  about 
the  same  hour,  I  have,  in  awaking  from  sleep,  seen  the  same 
vision.  To-day,  at  noon,  I  took  a  nap.  I  awoke,  and 
there  was  the  vision — and  there  it  remained  longer  than 
usual." 

"  And  you  think  this  was  really  an  optical  illusion,  Mag- 
dalene ?" 

"  Of  course  it  was — imaginative  as  I  am,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve it  to  have  been  his  spirit ;  besides,  look  at  the  period 
nt  which  the  vision  always  presented  itself,  just  at  the  mo- 
ment of  my  awakening,  in  the  '  chiara  obscura"1  of  blended 
dream  and  reality,  and  in  the  darkened  room — and  then  it 
ever  vanished  as  the  last  shadows  of  my  sleep  departed." 


RECONCILIATION.  46'J 

"Yet  you  say  this  'illusion'  was  so  satisfying!  Are  mere 
illusions  ever  really  satisfying  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  do  you  not  know  that  ?" 

She  was  far  from  suspecting  the  truth  yet.  He  arose 
and  drank  off  a  draught  of  cold  water — he  wished  to  be  per- 
fectly cool  and  steady,  lest  his  agitation  might  be  infectious 
— he  resumed  his  seat  by  her  side,  took  her  wrist,  and  with 
his  finger  on  her  pulse,  said : 

"  Magdalene,  was  there  no  possibility  that  the  supposed 
optical  illusion  might  have  been  a  reality  ?"  The  pulse 
bounded,  stopped.  Magdalene  grew  deadly  pale,  bent  for- 
ward, clasped  his  arm,  and  gazed  at  him  intently.  He  con- 
tinued :  "Was  there  no  possibility,  I  say,  that  the  supposed 
vision  might  have  been  some  loving  watcher  of  your  slum- 
bers, who,  to  prevent  surprising  and  disturbing  you,  glided 
away  on  your  first  symptoms  of  awakening  ?"  Her  gaze 
became  so  intense,  her  cheek  so  white,  that  he  felt  he  must 
relieve  immediately  the  suspense  that  was  now  more  dan- 
gerous than  the  full  information  could  be.  "  Magdalene, 
your  vision  was  a  reality — Lord  Cliffe  is  in  Boston  ;  he  is 
in  this  house ;  he  has  been  your  frequent  daily  watcher  for 
a  week  past.  It  was  really  him,  and  not  an  image  conjured 
up  by  half-sleeping  fancy." 

Magdalene's  hold  relaxed  upon  his  arm,  her  hands  fell, 
her  eyes  closed,  and  she  sank  back  in  her  chair,  overcome, 
but  not  swooning.  Theodore  sprang  to  the  table,  poured 
out  a  glass  of  water,  and  putting  his  hand  at  the  back  of 
her  neck,  raised  her  head,  and  placed  the  water  to  her  lips 
She  drank  a  little,  and  waved  the  glass  away.  He  set  it 
down  and  returned  to  her. 

"  Tell  me  more  !"  she  said. 

And  Theodore  resuming  his  seat,  said  :   "He  came  here 
a  week  ago,  Magdalene     Do  you  not  recollect  that  the  last 
day  I  was  with   yon,  previous  to   my  sickness,  a   card  was 
brought  me,  and  I  left  the  room  ?" 
29 


470  THE     TWO     SISTEKb. 

"  Yes— yes !» 

"  It  was  Lord  Cliffe's  card,  and  I  found  him  awaiting  me 
in  the  parlor.  He  had  recently  heard  of  yonr  residence  in 
Boston,  and  of  your  illness.  He  had  come  here  seeking 
you.  Magdalene,  dearest,  he  made  me  understand  his 
right  of  admission  to  your  apartment."  Magdalene's  brow 
crimsoned,  and  Theodore  hastened  to  add :  "  He  told  me 
of  your  secret  marriage  at  a  village  near  Norforlk,  and  of 
jour  making  the  tour  of  Europe  together." 

"  He  told  you  that !"  exclaimed  Magdalene,  bitterly,  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  spread  hands. 

"  Yes,  dear  Masrdalene  !  He  saw  that  I  was  your  friend. 
even  unto  death,  if  needful — and  he  knew  that  he  could 
confide  in  me,  and  saw  that  it  was  besides  unavoidable.  I 
should  have  prevented  his  seeing  you  otherwise,  and  so  he 
told  me  that  you  were  his  wife — if  you  consented  to  be  so, 
for  that  otherwise  there  was  an  informality  in  the  marriage 
ceremonies,  by  which  you  were  united,  that  might  be  used 
to  annul  the  marriage." 

"  He  said  that,"  said  Magdalene,  with  a  deep  joy  break- 
ing up  through  the  conflicting  emotions  of  her  bosom — and 
irradiating  her  countenance  a  moment — and  then  her  brow 
grew,  overcast,  as  she  thought  within  herself — "  Yes,  but 
when  he  knows  all,  all !  that  I  have  to  confess — how  that 
it  was  my  revenge  that  armed  the  assassin  against  his  life 
— so  nearly  lost  then — how  then  ?  Oh,  at  least  I  shall  see 
him — yes — soon  !  and  on  his  bosom  pour  out  this  story  of 
passion,  guilt,  suffering,  and  pray  for  forgiveness  !"  then  in  a 
trembling  voice,  she  asked,  "  Theodore,  when  shall  I  see  him  ?" 

"  Just  as  soon  as  you  are  strong  enough — I  mean  suffi- 
ciently composed  to  bear  the  interview." 

"  Now,  then  !  Let  it  be  now,  Theodore  1  for  I  shall  arrow 
more  agitated  every  moment  that  I  wait.  Give  me  a  glass 
of  water — and — thank  you  " 


RECONCILIATION.  471 

She  received  the  glass  from  his  hand,  drained  it  off,  re- 
turned it  to  him,  and  said — 

"Theodore — no — no  hasty,  impertinent  message  from 
me  to  him — such  would  ill  become  me.  Go  to  Lord  Ciifl'c, 
Theodore,  and  let  him  know  that  I  wait  here  to  receive  him 
at  his  own  best  convenience." 

She  looked  so  pale,  so  meek,  so  unlike  her  former  self, 
yet  withal  so  beautiful,  that  he  could  have  fallen  at  her  feet 
and  worshiped  her.  He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  look 
upon  her  a  single  moment  longer.  He  hastened  from  the 
room  to  do  her  bidding. 

Magdalene  remained  seated  in  the  arm-chair,  with  her 
hands  clasped  and  her  face  bowed,  as  in  prayer. 

A  few  minutes  passed  so,  and  then  the  door  swung  rap- 
idly open,  and  Lord  Cliffe  entered  the  room. 

She  heard  his  footstep,  and  raised  her  head  to  look  once 
more  upon  that  old,  familiar,  fondly-loved  form  and  face. 

His  form  was  majestic  and  graceful  as  ever,  but  his  face 
was  pale,  and  his  countenance  eloquent  with  profound  emo- 
tion. And  oh  !  at  the  first  sight  of  his  living  self,  all  her 
old,  fond,  half-lost  affection  rushed  back  in  a-  tumultuous 
flood  of  overwhelming  tenderness  and  joy,  and  with  a  sud- 
den, overmastering  impulse  she  started  up,  and  threw  her- 
self upon  his  bosom.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms — pressed 
her  to  his  heart,  and  kissed  her  pale  lips  and  paler  brow- 
many  times.  And  she  wept  convulsively  on  his  shoulder — 
her  whole  frame  heaving  and  shuddering.  No  word  was 
spoken  for  some  time,  until  at  length  he  whispered — 

"  Magdalene,  you  have  forgiven  me — you  have  already 
forgiven  me — I  know  and  feel  it,  dear, — but — tell  me  so  !" 

She  attempted  to  reply,  but  sobs  choked  her  utterance. 
She  essayed  once  more  to  answer,  but  failed. 

He  pressed  her  closer  to  his  bosom,  and  murmured,  sooth- 
ingly- 


472  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  Magdalene  !  dearest  Magdalene  !  do  not  try  to  speak, 
yet,  then.  Weep  on,  love  !  weep  on  !  it  will  do  yon  good. 
Shed  all  your  tears,  and  let  them  be  the  last  you  shall  ever 
have  to  shed." 

She  tfe)abled  so  much  that  he  seated  her  npon  the 
lounge,  and  keeping  his  arras  around  her,  rested  her  head 
against  his  breast.  Again  she  endeavored  to  speak,  and  in 
a  voice  frequently  interrupted  by  sobs,  she  exclaimed  — 

"Oh!  Clinton,  if  you  knew  all — if  you  knew  all!  I 
have  a  confession  to  make,  that  may — oh  !  that  must  sepa- 
rate us  again  and  forever  !"  And  choking  sobs  again 
arrested  her  further  speech. 

I  know  not  what  dark  suspicion  crossed  the  mind  of 
her  lover — it  was  not  the  right  one — for  his  countenance 
changed,  but  he  governed  himself,  and  replied — 

"Magdalene!  do  not  speak  another  word  until  you  are 
more  composed." 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  I  must,  for  until  you  set  upon  my  brow  the 
kiss  of  forgiveness — if  that  can  be — every  other  kios  burns." 
And  in  impassioned  and  agonized  tones,  she  poured  out 
the  whole  terrible  story  of  her  heart's  life  for  the  past  four 
years — its  ambition — its  love — its  jealousy — despair — re- 
venge— remorse. 

He  heard  the  whole  horrible  story  through — supporting 
her  head  on  his  bosom  all  the  time.  At  its  close  he  folded 
her  closely  to  his  heart — and  parting  the  dark  hair  from  her 
brow,  he  pressed  his  lips  there,  saying — 

"This  is  the  kiss  of — reconciliation — the  other  word  is 
inadmissible  from  me  to  you,  my  Magdalene.  For  the  rest 
we  have  both  sinned  against  God — let  us  ask  '  forgiveness* 
of  him." 

"  God  may  forgive  me  !  but  how  can  you  ?" 

"  Dear  Magdalene,  your  anger — " 

"  Oh  !  I  was  not  angry  !     I  had  not  that  excuse." 


RECONCILIATION.  473 

"  Yonr  hatred,  then,  was  very  just !  and  I  had  only  to 
be  just  to  disarm  all  your  vengeance.  Let  us  talk  no  more 
of  it.  Merciful  God  !  it  was  I,  by  sin,  that  led  you  to  thid 
precipice  of  fearful  guilt." 

Both  were  silent  for  a  little  while  to  compose  themselves, 
and  gain  that  habitual  self-control  for  which  each  was 
distinguished.  Lord  Cliffe  passed  the  whole  afternoon  in 
her  room — leaving  it  at  last,  only  at  the  nurse's  command 
who  insisted  that  her  patient  had  set  up  too  long.  Upon 
leaving  Magdalene,  Lord  Cliffe  sought  Theodore  Hervey, 
whom  he  found  engaged  in  replying  to  Judge  Washington's 
letters. 

The  next  morning  Magdalene  and  Clinton  were  united 
in  marriage,  according  to  the  forms  of  the  Protestant  Epis- 
copal Church.  Theodore  Hervey  performed  the  ceremony, 
and  the  attendant  physician  and  his  wife  witnessed  the 
marriage. 

After  it  was  over,  Theodore  took  -leave  of  the  parties, 
and,  in  company  with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Warren,  left  the  hotel. 
He  would  gladly  have  absented  himself  from  Magdalene's 
society  from  that  da^  forth,  but  fearing  to  disturb  her  peace 
with  a  suspicion  of  his  deep  sufferings,  with  his  habitual 
spirit  of  self-devotion,  he  visited  her  as  usual. 

From  this  day  Magdalene  rapidly  gained  health  and 
strength.  A  week  passed  away,  and  Lord  Cliffe  began  to 
talk  of  their  removal  to  Richmond,  where  he  wished  to  see 
Judge  Washington  again,  and  to  settle  some  business,  pre- 
vious to  going  to  Europe,  when  one  morning  an  event 
occurred  that  for  the  present  changed  his  plans.  They 
were  sitting  together  in  the  parlor — Magdalene,  Lord  Cliffe, 
and  Theodore  Hervey — when  the  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  Judge  Washington,  Virginia,  and  Mr.  Carey  were 
announced,  and  entered  the  room.  Lord  Cliffe  and  Mr. 
Hervey  arose  to  meet  their  visitors — but  Virginia  (luu  to 


47 1  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Magdalene,  and  throwing  her  arms  around  her  neck,  burst 
into  tears  of  joy.  How  long  she  would  have  wept  I  do  not 
know,  but  that  Magdalene,  kissing  her  cheek,  gently  seated 
her  in  the  easy-chair,  and  disengaged  herself. 

Magdalene  then  turned  to  give  her  hand  to  her  husband, 
who  was  standing  by  her  side,  and  who  now  presented  her 
to  Judge  Washington  as  his  wife,  Lady  Cliffe. 

Judge  Washington's  brow  grew  dark  and  severe,  and  he 
receded  a  step — this  was  involuntary — inevitable — it  was 
an  impulsive  start  of  his  nature — it  was  but  for  a  moment 
. — then  reaching  his  hand,  he  took  that  of  Magdalene,  and 
in  a  tone  and  with  a  manner  more  grave  and  earnest  than 
lively — wished  her  and  her  husband  much  happiness. 

Mr.  Carey  next  came  up,  and  shaking  hands  with  Mag- 
dalene, congratulated  her  upon  her  recovery. 

They  then  sat  down,  and  conversation  was  becoming 
genera^**  when  the  chamber-maid  entered  to  show  Miss 
Washington  to  her  room,  to  which  her  baggage  had  been 
carried,  in  order  that  she  might  change  her  dress.  Magda- 
lene, at  Virginia's  desire,  accompanied  her  to  her  chamber. 

When  they  were  gone,  Judge  Washington  requested  the 
favortof  a  private  interview  with  Lord  Cliffe,  and  the  two 
gentlemen  retired  to  another  room.  Then  Judge  Wash- 
ington informed  his  lordship  that  the  object  of  his  errand 
to  Boston  had  been,  not  only  to  bring  his  ward  home  to 
Prospect  Plains,  but  also  to  entreat  Lord  Cliffe  to  come 
immediately  to  the  same  place,  in  order  to  be  in  readiness 
to  identify  the  man  who  had  been  arrested  on  the  suspicion 
of  having  assaulted  him,  and  who  was  now  in  the  county 
jail.  Finally,  he  bogged  to  know,  in  the  event  of  his  lord- 
ship's agreeing  to  the  proposed  visit,  how  soon  he  could 
coi. leniently  set  out  for  Virginia. 

Lord  Cliffe  replied  that  he  himself  would  be  ready  at  any 
time,  but  that  he  must  consult  the  welfare  of  his  wife,  whose 


RECONCILIATION.  475 

very  recent  recovery  misrht  not  be  sufficiently  confirmed  to 
admit  of  her  immediately  taking  so  long  and  fatiguing  a 
journey. 

In  the  meantime — while  Judge  Washington  and  Lord 
Cliffe  were  conversing  in  one  room — and  Magdalene  and 
Virginia  were  tete-a-tete  in  another — Joseph  Carey  and 
Theodore  Hervey  were  renewing  their  intimacy  in  the  par- 
lor. Theodore  Hervey  had  always  looked  pale  and  grave, 
and  now  a  slight  additional  pallor  and  gravity  excited  no 
surprise  in  the  mind  of  his  friend,  who  was  too  happily 
engaged  in  his  own  beatitudes  to  be  over  observant  and 
solicitous  where  no  cause  of  distress  was  suspected.  So 
Joseph  Carey  informed  Theodore  Hervey  of  all  his' love — 
first  of  its  hopelessness — its  deathlessness — its  long  trial, 
and  finally,  its  triumph  and  its  exceeding  great  reward — 
dwelling  with  unconscious  cruelty  upon  his  own  great  hap- 
piness. Theodore  wished  him  joy  with  all  his.  soul,  but 
after  a  little  while,  said — 

"  But,  Joseph  ! — how  about  your  missionary  station — and 
when  are  you  going  to  be  married  ?" 

,  Mr.  Carey  replied  that  he  could  answer  both  questions 
at  once  : — 

That  he  had  returned  to  America  for  the  purpose  of 
arousing  by  means  of  a  series  of  lectures  and  sermons, 
i he  interest  of  the  Christian  community  in  behalf  of  the 
Indian  Missions — that  it  was  his  intention  to  go  out  to 
1 1. dia  and  return  to  his  charge  in  the  Spring — that  Vir- 
Lrh'in  would  remain  only  his  betrothed  during  her  grand- 
!;I'|I.T'S  life — for  that  he  could  not  marry  Virginia  and  It-are 
her,  neither  could  he  take  her  from  her  grandfather  in  his 
extreme  old  age.  That  she  and  himself  had  agreed  upon 
this— that  they  were  not  unhappy  about  it — that  they  had 
no  double  or  fears,  either  concerning  each  other,  their  future 
union,  or  God's  blessing. 


476  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

This  Joseph  Carey  declared  with  a  spirit  as  sincere  as  it 
was  cheerful. 

But  Theodore  Hervey  caught  his  hand,  and  clasping  it, 
said — 

"  Oh,  Joseph !  you  and  Virginia,  long  and  fondly  at- 
tached as  you  are,  and  having  her  grandfather's  consent  to 
your  immediate  marriage — you  can  both  agree  to  separate, 
and  put  a  hemisphere  between  your  two  selves  for  an  indefi- 
nite number  of  years,  and  only  that  she  may  devote  all  her 
youth  to  an  old  man's  infirmities  ?" 

"We  both  think  it  is  right,"  said  Joseph  Carey. 

Theodore  Hervey  remained  silent  and  thoughtful  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  he  said, 

"  Joseph,  I  have  a  proposition  to  make  to  you  !  Do  not 
misunderstand  me,  but  agree  to  it,  ff  yon  possibly  can. 
Joseph,  for  years  I  have  felt  a  call  to  missionary  labor.  1 
have  been  unfaithful  because  one  selfish  human  passion  pos- 
sessed my  soul,  and  governed  it.  I  am  punished.  Through 
that  passion  I  have  been  wounded  almost  unto  death.  You 
saw  that  woman  who  just  left  the  room  with  Virginia  ? 
Joseph,  I  have  some  religion — or  some  name  of  it ! — but, 
Joseph,  I  loved  that  woman  more  than  God's  service — for 
her  I  might  have  betrayed  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  Well, 
Joseph,  last  week — yes,  a  week  ago  to-day — I  married  that 
woman  to  another  man.  Look  at  me  !  Let  me  go  in  your 
place,  Joseph  !  Let  me  take  your  pastoral  charge  in  India, 
and  do  you  marry  Virginia,  remain  here,  and  do  all  you  can 
in  this  country,  and  among  this  people,  for  the  cause  of 
Foreign  Missions.  Agree  to  this,  Joseph  !  It  is  sudden, 
but  it  is  wise  and  best ;  you  will  think  so,  when  you  have 
reflected  upon  it.  For  myself,  I  earnestly  desire  to  go, 

'  If  Heaven  will  take 
A  heart  that  earth  has  crushed.'  " 

After  the  first  start  of  surprise — the  first  look  of  intenao 


RECONCILIATION.  477 

sympathy — Joseph  Carey  listened  calmly  and  attentively  ; 
but  when  Theodore  ceased  speaking,  he  dropped  his  head 
upon  his  chest  in  deep  thought,  and  did  not  immediately 
reply. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my  proposition,  Joseph  ?"  asked 
Theodore,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  think  this,  dear  friend  ;  that  we  must  each  of  us  have 
a  week  or  two  of  strict  self-examination,  prayer,  and  cool 
reflection,  before  we  speak  again  upon  this  subject,  far  less 
come  to  any  conclusion." 

Here  their  further  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Virginia  and  Magdalene,  who  were  soon  also 
joined  by  Judge  Washington  and  Lord  Cliffe. 

Virginia  had  already  informed  her  sister  of  the  proposi- 
tion of  Judge  Washington,  and  though  now  his  office  as  the 
prote'ctor  of  his  adopted  daughter  and  ward  was  superceded 
by  the  higher  and  stronger  claim  of  another  to  that  title, 
vet  Virginia  had  urged  and  entreated  Magdalene  to  offer 
no  opposition  to  the  plan,  but  consent  to  go  with  them  to 
Prospect  Hall. 

In  a  subsequent  interview  between  Lord  Cliffe  and  Mag- 
dalene, they  agreed  to  accept  this  invitation  to  Prospect 
Hall,  and  made  known  their  decision  to  Judge  Wash- 
ington. 

In  four  days  from  this  time  the  whole  party  set  out  foi 
Virginia  and  Prospect  Hall,  whither,  by  a  few  hours,  we 
must  precede  them 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

CORAL     AND     PRINCE. 

"  And  the  crush M  beetle  feels  a  pang 
As  great  as  wlieu  a  hero  dies." — Pope. 

I  AM  not  sure  about  the  meaning  of  the  above  couplet, 
ever,  if  I  have  quoted  it  aright,  which  is  doubtful — but  its 
application  to  our  present  chapter  is  palpable.  For  while 
we  have  been  interesting  ourselves  with  the  loves  and  for- 
tunes of  a  pair  of  lovers,  whose  troubles  were  all  created — • 
not  by  hard-hearted  parents  and  guardians — but  by  tire  evil 
in  their  own  "undisciplined  hearts,"  we  have  treated  with 
thorough  neglect  a  humble  couple,  who  loved  more  disin- 
terestedly, faithfully,  and  constantly,  and  who,  for  no  faults 
of  their  own,  were  divided  by  a  cruel  misunderstanding  for 
nearly  twenty  years — Coral  and  Prince. 

It  was  a  fine,  clear,  genial  winter  day,  "the  air  was  still, 
and  the  water  was  still,"  and  the  sun  warmly  bright — one  of 
those  days  that  visit  our  climate  in  the  midst  of  winter — a 
June  day  in  January,  but  for  the  leafless  forest — when  old 
Adam  Hawk  walked  up  to  Prospect  Hall  with  an  open 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  calling  for  the  housekeeper — Coral 
I'Vpper  vice  Polly  superannuated — informed  her  that  the 
letter  he  held  in  his  hand  was  from  Judge  Washington,  nnd 
announced  that  he  would  arrive  at  home  with  a  party  of 
guesis  that  evening,  and  requested  that  every  thing  might 
bi  in  readiness  for  their  reception.  Having  given  this  in- 
formation, old  Adiim  Hawk  turned  about  and  marched  off 
Adam  went  from  the  house  directly  to  the  stables,  where  he 
(478; 


CORAL     AND     PRINCE.  479 

ordered  the  coachman  to  have  the  capacious  family  carriage 
got  in  readiness,  and  to  drive  to  Heathville  to  meet  his 
master.  After  completing  these  arrangements,  Adam  Hawk 
turned  to  go  home,  but  was  met  by  a  messenger  from  the 
jailer  at  St.  Leonard's,  who  brought  an  urgent  request  that, 
if  Judge  Washington  had  not  yet  returned,  he  himself  would 
come  with  all  possible  haste  to  the  jail,  for  that  his  prisoner 
was  at  the  point  of  death,  and  wished  to  see  him  with  the 
purpose,  it  was  thought,  of  making  a  full  confession.  With- 
out waiting  a  moment,  Adam  Hawk  turned  his  steps  imme- 
diately toward  St.  Leonard's.  Coral  re-entered  the  house 
immediately,  and  assembling  all  the  housemaids  and  ser- 
vants, gave  her  orders  dispatching  two  of  the  former  to 
open  and  air  the  bed-chambers,  change  the  bed-linen,  and 
lastly  to  light  fires,  so  that  the  rooms  might  be  gradually 
and  thoroughly  warmed — and  sent  two  of  the  latter  to  take 
off  the  brown-holland  covers  in  the  saloon,  to  fill  and  trim 
the  lamps,  light  fires,  etc., — and  finally,  she  went  herself 
into  the  pantry  and  still-room,  where,  with  several  assist- 
ants, she  commenced  the  interminable  labor  of  preparing  a 
Virginian  supper  for  company — for  there  was  a  ham,  a 
round  of  beef,  and  some  tongues  to  be  boiled  early,  so  as  to 
give  them  time  to  get  cold  for  slicing — then  there  were 
several  kinds  of  bread,  and  of  cake,  that  required  time  in 
the  rising  and  baking — to  say  nothing  of  what  came  after 
— a  turkey  to  be  roasted,  ducks  to  be  baked,  chickens  to  be 
boiled,  oysters  to  be  stewed,  <fec.,  &c.,  &c. 

In  fact,  a  Virginia  supper  for  company,  in  no  way  differs 
from  a  dinner  for  a  like  occasion,  except  in  the  absence  of 
wine  and  vegetables,  and  the  presence  of  tea  and  coffee. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  every 
preparation  was  complete,  except  the  lighting  up.  The 
table  was  set  out  in  very  handsome  style  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  fires  were  glowing  in  parlors  and  in  chambers 


480  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Every  man  and  maid  was  at  his  or  her  post,  and  Coral  was 
only  waiting  to  hear  the  clock  strike  six,  before  lighting  the 
chandeliers. 

She  was  standing  in  a  moody  attitude  before  the  glowing 
hickory  fire  in  the  wainscoted  parlor,  when  she  heard  a  stef 
near  her,  and  looking  around,  saw  her  old  friend  Prince 
She  gave  a  little  start,  and  then  she  held  out  her  hand,  and 
ehook  hands  with  him. 

"  I  suppose  master  has  arrived,  Prince  ?  I  must  make 
haste  and  light  the  lamps." 

"No,  the  carriage  is  five  mile  ahind  yet;  the  Judge 
sent  me  on  a  horseback  afore,  for  fear  his  letter  hadn't  arriv'. 
Let  me  light  the  lamps,  Corry." 

Coral  thanked  him,  and  when  the  illumination  was  com- 
plete, he  turned  around  to  take  a  view  of  his  lady-love,  and 
with  a  tragi-comic  look  of  mingled  deprecation,  entreaty, 
and  reproach,  said : 

"  Come,  Corry,  do  come.  It's  so  hard,  so  it  is,  that  I'm 
been  waiting  twenty  odd  year,  and  now  our  disunderstand- 
ment  is  all  brought  tc  light,  and  my  innocense  is  a  shining 
like  a  star  at  noon  day,  and  is  as  white  as  the  driven  lamb, 
you  should  keep  on  being  so  disrational." 

"  Hush,  Prince  1  Let  me  alone.  Don't  be  foolish.  Go 
and  see  ef  the  fire  is  burning  in  master's  room,  and  turn 
his  clean  clothes  that  are  airing  on  the  chair." 

"But,  Coral,  child,  indeed  this  here  is  very  unkind;  jes 
take  a  'sideration  on  to  it,  chile.  Here  is  I  been  waitiu'  on 
twenty  odd  years — " 

"  You  might  a'  married  any  time,  I  didn't  hinder  of  you, 
Prince." 

"  Jes  hear  to  her.  She  talks  to  me,  jes  as  if  I  wur  as 
onprincipled  as  a  white  man.  Me  leave  you  !  no,  Coral, 
Prince  William  Henry  thinks  more  of  hisself  than  that. 
You  may  'pulse  me,  and  'pull  me,  and  'spect  me  wrongfully, 


CORAL     AND     PRINCE.  481 

ns  yon  has  been  a  doin'  of,  an'  you  might  trample  on  me, 
and  beat  me,  and  kick  me,  as,  meteorlogically  speaking,  you 
has  been  a  doin'  of,  but  it  ain't  no  good.  I  keep  on  a 
lovin'  of  you  same  as  ever,  an'  even  samer  ;  there  ain't  no 
dog  on  Marster's  plantation  no  more  faithfuller  than  what 
I  am,  and  that  sayin'  of  a  great  deal — and  you  'spicionin' 
of  me  so  bad  all  along." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  '.spected  of  you,  Prince,  'deed  I  am ;  but 
'deed  you  did  wrongfully,  'deed  you  did,  Prince,  in  not 
lettin'  on  'bout  your  own  'spicions  of  him,  'deed  you  did, 
Prince.  It  made  you  look  so  guilty  to  them  as  loved 
you  well  enough  to  see  your  looks.  It  made  me  'spect 
you,  an'  it  'mos'  broke  my  poor  heart,  'deed  it  did, 
Prince." 

"  Now  you  sees  how  it  was." 

"  No,  I  don't,  Prince.  I  sees  how  everybody  ought  for 
to  do  'cisely  right." 

"  But  I  did  do  right.  How  could  I  be  sure  hox  it  was, 
and—" 

"  Hush,  Prince  I  hush,  Prince  I  you  shan't  stan'  there  a 
'fendin'  of  yourself  when  you  ought  for  to  be  'pentin'  in  sack- 
cloth an'  ashes.  I  ses  agin'  it's  everybody's  dooty  to  shet 
theer  eyes  and  do  'cisely  right  without  ever  lookin'  to  see 
what's  gwine  for  to  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  But  let  me  'xpound  and  'xplain  to  you  how  it  wor, 
Corry  ?" 

"  It's  no  use,  Prince.  You've  'xpounded  and  'xplained 
over  an'  again,  and  the  more  you  'xpound  and  'xplain  the 
more  worser  I  can't  help  thinkin'  of  it." 

"  That  wasn't  a  ca'se  I  haddent  the  right  on  my  side,  but 
a  ca'se  I  wur  an  undeffunt  bad  lawyer;  but  ef  you'll  on'y 
hear  me  argafy  the  subjec'  and  'scuss  the  'scussion  over 
again — " 

"  It's  not  a  bit  o'  use,  Prince." 


482  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

"  I  will  speak  !  So  jes  listen,  Corry.  I  known  yum 
oldest  half-brother  " 

"  Don't  keep  calling  of  him  my  half-brother  ;  he  was 
none  of  my  mother's  chile,  an'  so  I  don't  b'lieve  he  was 
ai:;  kin  to  me  at  all.  I  feel  like  I  knew  he  wd'ri't.  I  could 
a'most  stake  my  mortal  soul  on  it.  No  one  as  had  a  drop 
o'  the  same  blood  as  I  have  in  their  veins  could  'a  been  such 
a — oh,  such  a — I  don't  know  what  name  is  bad  enough. 
Sometimes  I  doubts  he  was  a  human  at  all  Sometimes  I 
thinks  he  must  a'  been  an  evil  sperit  in  the  body  of  a  man." 

"That  you  may  'pend  upon  it  he  was,  Coral.  All  of 
as  is  either  good  sperits,  or  bad  sperits,  or  jack  indef- 
funt  sperits  in  the  human  form  at  las'  and  no  mir'cle 
either — but  I  wur  sayin'  that  I  known  Abram  well,  bet- 
ter nor  anybody  else.  I  known  him  when  a  chile  he'd 
hole  the  madness  in  his  heart  for  months  'an  months  to- 
gether, an'  never  let  on  'till  he  got  a  chance  to  spite  them, 
as  he  was  mad  'long  of.  So  when  I  heern  how  he  wui 
treated  of — bad  enough — that  I  gree'  to  !" 

"  Yes !  but  that  was  not  the  fault  of  my  dear,  angel 
young  mistress,  who  he  'stroyed  so  innocen." 

"  No  more  it  wa'n't — but  it  wur  the  fault  of  that  bloody 
minded  ole  Adam  Hawk,  her  father's  overseer ! — an'  spite 
is  blind  and  crazy  as  a  mad  dog,  and  it  '11  tear  to  pieces 
one  person  jes  soon  as  another.  Well !  as  I  was  a  savin' 
of — don'  keep  on  interruptin'  me — when  I  heern  how  he'd 
been  treated  of,  and  how  he'd  runned  away,  I  said  to  my- 
self how  he'd  never  res'  till  he'd  spited  the  farn'ly.  /  wur 
nothin'  more  'an  a  b'y  then  myself,  and  you  wur  a  little  gal 
chile  an'  neither  of  us  had  thought  'bout  keepin'  company 
'long  o'  one  another.  Well,  so  as  years  went  by  an'  nothin' 
raois  was  heern  tell  o'  Abram,  an'  as  I  had  courtin'  an' 
other  'portant  business  to  'tend  to,  it  was  nat'ral  'nough 
f.hat  he  should  o'  scaped  out'n  my  memorandum,  an'  so  he 


CORAL     AND     PRINCE.  483 

did  'plelely  'till  when  Marster  Cap'n  Carey  wur  waylaid  an' 
'stroyed,  and  nobody  couldn't  tell  by  whom,  I  thought  'bout 
Abram  and  his  spiteful  ways,  an'  then,  Coral,  the  first 
'spicion  came  into  my  heart,  an'  it  made  me  so  onhappy  and 
so  oneasy  I  didn't  know  what  tew  do.  Sometimes  J  thought 
how  it  was  my  duty  to  let  on  'bout  my  thoughts,  an'  some- 
times I  thought  how  it  wa'u't,  ca'se,  you  see,  arter  all,  I 
had  no  foundation  to  go  'pon  but  my  own  'spicions — an' 
finally  it  wore  and  tore  'pon  my  min'  so,  that  every  time  I 
heern  Cap'n  Carey  mention' it  turn'd  me  right  sick,  an'  you 
noticed  of  it,  an'  you  'gan  for  to  'spect  me  o'  knowin'  some- 
thin'  bout  it,  an'  you  cooled  off  from  me.  Meantime  that 
lack  was  made  on  Miss  Mary,  and  then,  Coral,  you  actilly 
turned  ill,  an'  that  made  me  worse,  for,  Coral,  'deed  an' 
'deed  /  never  did  'spect  Abram  of  that  'normous  wicked- 
ness !  I  didn't,  indeed — 'sides  which,  you  know,  I  had  no 
reason  to  do  it.  I  hadn't  heern  anything  o'  Abram  for  years 
gone  past — deed  I  thought  mor'  it  wur  a  chance  shot  fired 
by  some  sportsman  gentleman,  'deed  I  did !  an'  so  did 
everybody  else,  an'  even  Miss  Mary  herself." 

"  Yes  !  for  what  did  she — the  dear  angel  I  know  of  such 
wickedness  ?" 

"  Well,  Coral,  a  short  time  after  that,  when — I  can't  call 
the  day,  the  black  day,  without  a  chill — well  I  say — when 
dear  Miss  Mary  fell  a  sacrifice  to  that  devil's  spite." 

"  And  to  your  want  of  courage." 

"  No,  no  !  no,  no  !  not  that !  'fore  my  heavenly  Judge  I 
ntver  'spected  him  of  any  design  ag'inst  Miss  Mary. 
Well,  but  arter  that,  1  suffered  horrible  1  'deed  I  did, 
Coral !  without  your  castin'  of  me  off  intirely  as  yon  did  ! 
Yes,  I  suffered  horrible  1  for  the  'spicion  wore  on  my  heart, 
an'  it  wore  on  it  'till  I  was  almos'  crazy.  If  there  hud  'a 
been  the  least  bit  of  evidence  beyant  my  own  feelin',  I'd  a 
known  what  to  do,  but  there  wur  nothing  but  my  own  in- 


484  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

Btinctorative  feelin',  an'  that  might  a'  been  all  a  -stake  o' 
mine  1  an'  the  notion  might  o'  been  put  into  my  head  by 
Sara — an'  for  me  to  go  an'  cast  a  'spicion  on  your  brother, 
Coral,  and  fetch  a  'grace  on  your  fam'ly,  and  break  your 
heart  well  as  I  loved  you ! — it  seem  like  it  wur  onpossible — 
elsewise  I  had  had  more  light  'an  I  had — an'  then  a  har- 
berin'  of  the  evil  thought  in  my  heart  weighed  down  my 
consciousness  like  blood-guiltiness,  an'  what  long  o'  one 
thing  an'  what  long  o'  another — an'  what  long  o'  havin' 
nobody  to  'spite  in — ca'se  you  'ceive  yourself  ef  I  had  let 
on  to  anybody,  they'd  a'  acted  right  on  top  of  it,  an'  what 
long  o'  your  castin'  me  off  an'  'spicionin'  of  me,  I  was 
almos'  druv  crazy,  an'  a  most  wished  I  had  been  born  a 
Roman,  so  I  might  o'  fessed  to  a  priest  who  would  o' 
'vised  me,  an'  been  boun'  not  to  tell.  Oh !  I  had  a  hun- 
dred thousand  milliont  of  thoughts  that  amost  racked  my 
head  an'  heart  to  pieces,  cause  they  wur  so  nnconsistin',  for 
sometimes  I  thought  my  'spicion  was  all  a  wicked  'ception 
o'  the  devil,  an'  sometime  I  thought  there  might  be  truffe 
in  it,  but  that  long  as  he  had  never  been  heern  tell  of  so 
long  an'  was  clean  gone,  an'  couldn't  be  cotch,  an'  no  one 
was  'cused  and  in  danger  o'  sufferin'  for  his  'fence — if  he 
did  'fend — it  wa'n't  no  use  to  say  nothin'  'bout  my  thoughts, 
an'  'cuse  your  brother,  an'  'grace  your  fam'ly,  an'  mistify 
your  feelin's  for  nothin'.  Well,  and  then  I  thought,  too, 
hew  he  might  be  cotch  an'  might  be  innocen',  and  then  all 
along  o'  my  wicked  thoughts  he  might  be  hung  upon 
substantial  inference,  or  whatever  the  law  is  called  which 
'demns  men  for  not  'mitting  the  crime — an'  then  I  knew  ef 
that  came  to  pass  it  would  break  your  heart  to  have  your 
brother  come  to  such  an  en',  an'  then  I  should  jes  a  bought 
my  freedom  an'  cut  my  own  throat !" 

"  Look  a  here,  Prince  !  he  wasn't  my  brother,  an'  you'll 
'fen'  me  if  you  say  he  was,  agin  ! — there  1" 


COKAL     AND     PRINCE.  485 

"  Well,  but  ain't  you  satisfied  now,  Coral  I" 

"  I  don't  know,  Prince.  I  know  I  ought  to  be ! — poor 
fellow  1  you  have  suffered  so  much  1" 

"  You  may  say  that !  I  could  not  keep  altogether  silent, 
neither — for  one  day  I  axes  Mr.  Hawk  what  he  thinks  has 
ever  come  of  runaway  Abram — an'  I  'clare  to  my  Lord  ef 
he  didn't  give  a  sudden  jump — an'  I  seen  that  from  that 
day,  he  had  his  'spicions  'roused.  He  questioned  of  me, 
but  I  'clared  to.  my  Lord  what  was  the  truffe,  that  I  had 
never  set  eyes  on  Abram  or  hearn  a  single  word  of  him 
since  the  day  an'  hour  he  ran  away  !  an'  that  I  stuck  to ! 
Come,  Coral,  ain't  you  satisfied  now?" 

"  Oh,  Prince  !  poor  fellow." 

"  Won't  you  make  frien's  long  o'  me  for  true,  now,  Coral  ?" 

"  Oh,  Prince,  you  know  I  suffered  all  along  as  much  as 
you  did — for  see  what  a  merry  girl  I  used  to  was,  an'  what 
a  sad  woman  I  have  been  ever  since," 

"  Well,  it  isn't  too  late  to  be  happy  yet — we'll  make  up 
for  loss  time." 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal  of  time,  Prince  ! — twenty  years. 
Twenty  years  makes  a  very  great  deffunce  in  people's  feel- 
in's.  I'm  an  old  maid  now — I'm  thirty-five  years  old — I 
was  but  fifteen  when  we  were  going  to  be  married,  an' 
broke  off—" 

"  Never  min'.     Let's  go  to  church  Sunday." 

"  'Taint  worth  while  now.  I'm  an  old  maid  now,"  re- 
peated Coral,  sadly. 

"  Well,  s'posin'  you  is — I  ain't  a  been  growin' younger 
all  this  time,  as  I  knows  of.  Come,  Coral,  now  come  !  just 
'sent  to  this.  Go  to  church  'long  o'  me,  Sunday." 

"  It  ain't  no  use,  Prince,  now  ;  'sides,  all  the  neighbors 
would  langh  at  us,  an'  call  ns  two  old  fools." 

"Well,  let  'em  laugh  !  This  is  a  very  sighin'  worl',  an' 
any  body  a?  raises  a  Inng-h  'forms  a  'ligious  duty — that's  ray 
30 


486  THE    TWO     SISTERS. 

belief — 'sides  which,  they  won't  laugh  at  us  forty  or  fifty 
years  on  the  stretch,  I  reckon,  an'  that's  the  length  o'  time 
I  'spects  to  'joy  my  life  'long  o'  you,  Coral.  Come,  Coral, 
answer  me." 

"  I  shall  have  to  answer  yon,  ef  it's  only  to  get  you  off  to 
see  after  master's  comforts  agin  he  comes.'' 

"Well,  why  don't  you  do  it." 

"  Well,  then,  Prince,  I'll  speak  to  Miss  Ginnie  when  she 
comes,  an'  do  you  talk  'long  o'  master,  an'  ef  they  two  don't 
see  any  thing  foolish  or  unproper  in  our  gettin' married  at  our 
time  o'  life,  why,  'haps — min',  I  say  'haps — I'll  'sider  of  it." 

"  Thanky,  Coral  !  thanky.  I  knew  you  would  listen  to 
reason  at  las' — " 

"There!  Go  along,  Prince  !  don't  be  a  fool.  There! 
I  do  believe  that's  them  now,"  said  Coral,  as  the  sound  of 
wheels  rolling  up  the  carriage  drive  was  heard. 

"  So  it  is,  I  'clare  !"  said  Prince,  hurrying  out  to  open 
the  front  door. 

The  whole  party,  consisting  of  Judge  Washington,  Vir- 
ginia, Joseph  Carey,  Lord  Cliffe,  Magdalene,  and  Theodore 
Hervey,  entered  the  house,  and  were  received  by  Coral  in 
her  capacity  of  housekeeper,  who,  with  one  of  the  maids, 
stood  in  readiness  to  attend  the  ladies  to  their  chambers  to 
change  their  traveling  habits.  Prince  rendered  the  same 
service  to  the  gentlemen. 

In  an  hour  after  they  were  all  assembled  around  the  sup- 
per-table. 

Their  day's  journey  had  been  a  short  one,  so  that  they 
were  not  constrained  to  retire  early  upon  account  of  fatigue, 
and  the  long  evening  was  passed  very  pleasantly  in  the  sa- 
loon. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  that 
Judge  Washington,  as  he  sat  in  his  library,  asked  for 
Adam  Hawk,  and  wsis  told  that  he  had  departed  in  haste 


CORAL     AND     PRINCE.  487 

to  St.  Leonard's  the  day  before.  While  still  inquiring  into 
the  object  of  his  errand,  he  was  interrupted  by  a  'ow  knock 
at  the.  door,  and  in  compliance  with  his  verbal  permission 
to  "  come  in,"  Adaiu  Hawk  entered.  At  a  sign  from  his 
overseer,  Judge  Washington  dismissed  his  attendant,  and 
locked  the  door.  Judge  Washington  and  Adam  Hawk  re- 
mained in  close  confidential  conversation  for  the  space  of 
an  hour.  At  the  end  of  that  t!me,  without  dismissing  his 
overseer,  he  rang  for  a  servant,  and  sent  and  requested  the 
immediate  presence  of  Lord  Cliffe,  Mr.  Carey,  and  Mr.  Har- 
vey. When  these  gentlemen  came  in  he  begged  them  to  be 
seated,  and  taking  from  the  table  by  his  side  a  written 
ind  folded  paper,  he  said, 

"  Gentlemen,  I  have  desired  your  presence  here,  this 
•norning,  for  the  purpose  of  making  known  to  you  a  grave 
and  important  event  which  has  relieved  us  all  of  a  heavy 
and  most  painful  responsibility.  Gentlemen,  the  prisoner, 
Abram  Pepper,  committed  upon  Mr.  Carey's  testimony  to 
answer  the  charge  of  assault  and  battery,  with  intent  to 
kill  Lord  Cliffe,  and  suspected  also  of  other  and  more  hein- 
ous crimes  of  longer  standing  date — has  been  to-day  ar- 
raigned before  a  higher  tribunal.  He  departed  this  life  at 
four  o'clock  this  morning  in  the  county  jail  at  St.  Leon- 
ard's, having  previously  made  a  full  confession  of  all  the 
crimes  laid  to  his  charge.  I  hold  an  attested  copy  of  that 
confession  in  my  hand,  and  painful  as  the  perusal  must  be 
to  us  all,  you  will  permit  me  to  read  it  aloud." 

This  confession  was  a  narrative  of  all  the  circumstances 
with  which  the  reader  has  been  recently  made  acquainted. 
While  this  scene  was  transpiring  in  the  library,  Coral  was 
literally  sitting  at  the  feet  of  her  young  mistress,  telling  the 
story  of  her  troubles,  perplexities,  and  scruples,  omitting 
every  thing,  however,  that  could  give  Virginia  pain,  and 
speaking  only  of  long  misapprehension  long  estrangement 


4:88  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

and  recent  reconciliation,  and  asking  Miss  Ginnie's  advic* 
about  the  propriety  of  being  married  at  their  "  time  of  life." 

"  Yes,  Coral,  marry  him,"  was  Ginnie's  good-natured 
verdict. 

That  morning  Theodore  Hervey  intended  to  set  out  for 
the  Old  Forest  Parsonage,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  and 
spending  some  time  with  his  parent,  and  sister.  After  he 
had  bidden  adieu  to  each  member  ol  the  family,  with  the 
exception  of  Joseph  Carey,  he  turned  to  shake  hands  with 
him — but  Joseph,  arising  from  his  seat,  said, 

"No,  Theodore,  I  will  ride  with  you,"  and  with  a  bow 
around,  he  left  the  room  in  company  with  his  friend. 

They  mounted  at  the  stables,  and  as  they  trotted  side  by 
side  up  the  road,  leading  around  by  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  through  the  forest  toward  the  parsonage,  Theodore  said, 

"  Well,  Joseph,  have  you  considered  my  proposal  ?" 

"  I  must  answer  your  question  by  another — have  you 
maturely  deliberated  upon  your  proposal  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  what  is  your  present  state  of  feeling  upon  the  sub- 
ject ?" 

"  More  anxious  in  favor  of  it  than  ever !  My  heart  is 
set  upon  going,  Joseph  I  /  must,  I  must  set  myself  to 
some  high  and  holy  task — throw  myself  into  some  soul- 
absorbing  work,  or  I  shall  madden  !" 

"Pardon  me  for  so  many  close  questions,  dear  Theodore, 
but  where  inclination  would  bias  me  so  strongly,  I  must  be 
guarded  at  all  points,  lest  to  secure  a  happiness  for  myself 
I  trample  upon  the  rights  and  the  feelings  of  others — this 
is  what  I  am  about  to  ask — have  you  consulted  your 
parents  upon  this  proposed  movement  of  yours?  I  know 
that  you  are  '  of  age,'  indeed,  but  I  know  of  no  age  that 
exonerates  you  from  consulting  your  parents'  happiness  in 
any  step  of  yours." 


CORAL     AND     PRINCE.  489 

"  My  father  and  mother  are  in  the  prime  of  life — they 
are  fondly  attached  to  each  other ;  they  do  not  need  me  at 
all — if  they  did,  I  would  remain  with  them  at  any  cost  of 
suffering  to  myself — but  it  is  not  so  !  And  I,  on  my  part, 
need,  as  a  lifegiver,  change  of  scene  and  action — absorb- 
ing duty  1  Do  you  only  consent,  Joseph,  and  they  will." 

"  You  must  remember  that  our  plan — I  say  our,  now, 
Theodore — requires  the  assent  of  the  Board  of  Foreign 
Missions." 

"Your  influence  can  command  that." 

"  I  think  that  they  will  agree  to  any  thing  I  propose — 
and  I  think  that  for  the  next  few  years  I  can,  with  the  help 
of  the  Lord,  be  most  useful  to  the  cause  by  remaining  in 
America,  and  trying  to  arouse  and  keep  alive  in  the  Chris- 
tian community  an  interest  in  Foreign  Missions.  I  think 
so — unless  inclination  strongly  biases  my  judgment,  which 
I  trust  in  God  it  is  not  permitted  to  do." 

Joseph  Carey  spoke  in  all  sincerity  and  simplicity,  and 
Theodore  said — 

"  Well !  your  final  determination,  dear  Joseph — I  am  so 
anxious  to  be  set  at  rest." 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  then,  you  may  consider  the 
arrangement  concluded,  and  that  you  are  to  go  out  to  India 
in  my  stead.  Don't  clasp  and  press  my  hand,  Theodore. 
I  feel  already  like  your  executioner !" 

"  Oh,  not  so  !  I  am  too  glad  to  go  !" 

After  a  little  further  conversation,  Joseph  Carey  pro- 
mised to  write  to  the  Board  of  Foreign  Missions,  expressing 
his  wish  to  resign  his  post  for  the  present  in  favor  of  the 
Rev.  Theodore  Hervey,  and  strongly  recommending  the 
latter  to  the  high  consideration  and  respect  of  the  Board. 
Soon  after  this  they  reached  the  door  of  the  Parsonage. 
Joseph  Carey  turned  to  bid  adieu  to  his  friend,  with  the 
intention  of  riding  back  to  Prospect  Hall — but  at  Theo- 


•±90  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

dore's  invitation  and  earnest  entreaty,  he  dismounted,  entered 
the  house,  and  spent  the  evening  with  the  family. 

A  fortnight  from  this  time,  Joseph  Carey  received  a  favor- 
able reply  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Foreign  Mis- 
sions, and  hastened  with  the  letter  to  the  parsonage.  And 
now,  for  the  first  time,  Theodore  Hervey  broached  the  subject 
to  his  family.  His  parents  were  not  in  the  least  surprised  at 
the  news — nor  did  they,  in  the  slightest  degree,  disapprove  of 
the  proposed  measure ;  they  said  that,  of  late  years,  they 
had  marked  out  between  themselves  just  such  a  career  for 
Theodore  and  Helen — for  that  Helen  must  wish  to  go  with 
her  brother ;  and  that,  considering  the  brother  and  sister 
singularly  adapted  to  the  work,  they  could  not  object. 

"Yes,  Theodore,"  said  Helen,  passing  her  arm  around 
his  neck,  "  yes,  Theodore  !  You  shall  not  go  alone  !  I 
will  accompany  you,  my  dear  brother  !" 

"  But  our  mother  and  father,  Helen,  how  can  you  think 
of  leaving  them  ?"  asked  Theodore,  when  the  first  effect  of 
the  astonishment  that  had  stricken  him  silent  was  at  an 
end. 

"  Our  mother  and  father  are  all  in  all  to  each  other, 
Theodore.  They  do  not  need  me  to  make  them  happy. 
If  I  were  married  they  would  lose  me  all  the  same,  and  to 
a  stranger  !  Besides,  they  love  you  so  well,  dear  Theodore, 
that  they  would  much  prefer  to  have  me  go  with  you." 

"Yes,  Theodore,"  interposed  the  mother,  "we  should  be 
much  happier  to  know  that  Helen  was  with  you,  assisting, 
comforting,  and  cheering  you,  than  even  to  have  her  at 
home !" 

"  But  to  lose  both  of  your  children,  my  dear  mother  !" 

"  I  have  their  father,  child." 

"  And  she  will  have  you  also,  by-and-by.  You  will  both 
return  to  us  in  happier  times,"  said  the  father. 

There  was  much   more   conversation — but  finally  it  was 


CORAL     AND     PRINCE.  491 

agroed  on  all  hands,  that  the  brother  and  sister  should  go 
>nt  to  India  in  company. 

This  plan  met  Joseph  Carey's  highest  approval. 

It  was  now  spring,  and  the  missionaries  to  India  were 
to  sail  early  in  the  summer.  It  was  now,  therefore,  ar- 
ranged that  the  marriage  of  Joseph  Carey  and  Virginia 
Washington  should  take  place  at  an  early  day,  as  Joseph 
was  anxious  that  his  friend,  Mr.  Hervey,  should  not  only 
be  present  at  his  marriage,  but  perform  the  ceremony,  and 
as  Theodore  was  equally  desirous  of  officiating. 

Lord  and  Lady  Cliffe  yielded  to  the  solicitations  of  their 
friends,  and  consented  to  remain  at  Prospect  Hall  until 
after  the  wedding. 

It  was  on  the  first  of  May,  in  the  presence  of  a  small  but 
select  company,  that  Joseph  Carey  and  Virginia  Wash- 
ington were  united  in  marriage  by  the  Rev.  Theodore 
Hervey. 

On  the  seventh  of  the  next  month,  Theodore  and  Helen 
Hervey  sailed  for  India. 

And  upon  the  fifteenth,  Lord  and  Lady  Cliffe,  bidding 
adieu  to  their  friends,  set  out  for  Norfolk,  whence  they 
embarked  for  England. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

CONCLUSION. 

"Of  the  present  much  is  bright, 

And  in  the  coming  years  I  see, 
A  brilliant  and  a  cheering  light, 

Which  burns  before  you  constantly." — W.  D.  Gallayner. 

I 

"  CATASTROPHES,  denouements,  et  cetera,  are  violent  or 
extraordinary  events,  occurring  but  once  in  a  book  or  a 
lifetime  :  give  us  an  after-glimpse  of  the  family,"  said  a  dear 
friend  to  me,  the  other  day ;  and  as  her  request  was  sec- 
onded and  enforced  by  several  other  voices,  and  as  no  one 
filtered  a  demurrer,  I  comply  by  giving  a  short  account 
of  the  last  time  I  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  the  people 
in  whose  "fortunes,  good  or  bad,"  I  have  been  trying  to 
interest  yon. 

It  was  the  first  of  September,  and  the  season  at  Shan- 
nondale  Springs — where  we  had  been  spending  the  sum- 
mer— was  just  over.  Being  very  unwilling  to  return  to 
the  dust  and  heat  of  Washington  city  in  the  hottest  and 
dryest  month  of  the  year,  we  were  casting  about  for  a 
healthy,  retired,  and  comfortable  country-house  in  which  to 
board  during  September,  when  our  eyes  were  attracted  to 
a  notice  of  a  great  Agricultural  Fair,  then  being  held  at 
the  village  of  Heathville,  near  the  sea-coast.  And  as  we 
had  never  had  the  benefit  of  seeing  such  a  festival,  we  de- 
cided to  go  to  Heathville,  where  we  could  first  receive  the 
pleasure  and  instruction  to  be  derived  from  witnessing  such 
an  exhibition,  and  afterward,  for  a  month,  the  comfort, 
(492) 


CONCLUSION.  498 

8'. elusion,  and  repose  we  required.  Our  arrangements  were 
all  soon  completed,  and  we  set  out. 

It  was  late  on  Friday  night  when  we  arrived  at  the  hotel 
at  Heathville,  which  we  found  crowded  with  company  from 
all  parts  of  the  State — not  a  fashionable  company,  such  as 
annually  throngs  to  the  watering  places — but  one  composed 
of  substantial  farmers,  gentlemen  planters,  thrifty  house- 
keepers, and  industrious  girls,  all  emulous  of  distinction  iu 
their  different  but  kindred  spheres  of  farming,  grazing, 
stock-breeding,  home  manufactures,  and  domestic  economy. 
We  heard  that  the  next  day,  Saturday,  was  the  last  day  of 
the  Fair.  The  next  morning  was  gorgeously  bright,  the 
village  presented  a  most  cheerful  and  animated  appear- 
ance, the  streets  were  filled  with  people  in  their  gay  holiday 
attire,  and  the  green  around  the  Tillage  was  "  lit  up"  with 
dazzling  white  tents.  At  a  greater  distance  were  enclos- 
ures, occupied  by  very  fine-looking  show  cattle.  We  were 
informed  that  farmers  and  planters  within  twelve  miles  or 
so,  came  with  their  families  every  morning,  and  departed 
every  night.  Those  only  who  came  from  greater  distances 
put  up  in  the  village — some  boarding  at  the  hotel,  some 
living  in  tents. 

After  an  early  breakfast  we  walked  to  the  temporary 
building  in  which  the  Fair  was  held. 

It  was  an  open  shed  in  the  form  of  the  letter  M,  having 
a  middle  principal  entrance,  and  one  each  side.  The  roof, 
instead  of  being  covered  with  boards,  was  thatched  with 
cedar,  pine,  and  lignum  vitce;  the  posts  supporting  the  roof 
were  wound  around  and  completely  hidden  by  the  same 
brilliant  evergreens  ;  the  whole  erection  presented  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  vast,  beautiful  temple,  covered  entirely  with 
foliage.  Over  the  arch  of  the  main  entrance  was  the 
motto — "LIBERTY  AND  UNION;"  over  the  right-hand  en- 
trance were  the  words — "  Friendship,  Truth,  Love  ;"  over 


49-i  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

the  left — "Labor,  Hope,  Patience."  The  mottoes,  all  in 
letters  formed  of  silver  stars,  flashed  brightly  out  from  the 
dark  surrounding  foliage. 

All  in,  and  out,  and  around  about  this  Temple  of  Ceres, 
were  crowds  of  gayly-dressed  men,  women,  and  children. 
It  was  indeed  a  joyous  and  inspiring  scene  ;  and  if  the 
temple  was,  of  its  kind,  grand  and  beautiful  without,  what 
was  it,  with  all  its  appointments,  within  ?  In  truth,  it  passes 
description. 

Here  were  stalls  gayly  decked  with  flowers  and  ever- 
greens, or  with  festoons  of  'cloths  and  flags,  and  here  was 
the  perfection  of  every  variety  of  fruit  and  flowers  the 
climate  and  soil  could  be  made  to  produce,  and  the  master- 
pieces of  every  description  of  home  manufacture,  for  which 
the  housekeepers  of  Virginia  are  distinguished — not  in 
confusion,  but  all  arranged  in  systematic  and  beautiful 
order. 

We  were  rambling  on  through  the  Fair,  dazzled  and 
bewildered  by  the  exuberant  abundance,  and  admiring  the 
master-pieces  of  skill  and  industry,  when  our  attention  was 
attracted  and  riveted  by  one  stall,  pre-eminent  for  the  taste 
and  elegance  of  its  arrangements,  as  well  as  for  the  wealth 
of  its  industrial  display. 

This  stall  was  divided  into  three  compartments.  On  the 
centre  was  arranged  specimens  of  domestic  cookery — a 
premium  ham,  a  medal  loaf  of  bread,  butter,  cakes,  sweet- 
meats, etc.  On  the  right  hand  were  exhibited  fruits  and 
flowers.  On  the  left  hand,  specimens  of  home  manufacture, 
webs  of  cotton,  woolen  and  linen  cloth,  quilts,  hosiery,  etc. 
But  the  crowning  glory  of  this  compartment,  and,  indeed,  of 
the  whole  stall,  and  perhaps  of  the  whole  Fair,  was  an 
elegant  white-knotted  counterpane,  with  a  deep,  rich  fringe, 
that  was  displayed  to  great  advantage  by  being  hung  in 
graceful  fesioons  behind  the  stall.  This  stall  was  at  present 


CONCLUSION.  495 

attended  by  a  genteel-looking  mulatto  servant,  with  two 
assistants.  The  back  of  the  former  happened  to  be  turned 
toward  us,  yet  still  we  thought  that  there  was  something 
familiar  in  her  general  appearance  and  air.  She  turned 
around,  and  we  recognized  Coral  Pepper,  now  a  buxom, 
middle-aged,  motherly-looking  matron.  As  she  looked  up, 
and  our  eyes  met,  and  we  both  smiled,  and  we  had  just 
spoken  to  her,  when  our  attention  was  suddenly  attracted, 
and  our  interest  strongly  excited  in  another  direction. 
"  That  is  very  beautiful  !  I  do  so  much  admire  to  see  a 
mother,  still  so  young  and  beautiful  as  Mrs.  Carey,  escorted 
by  her  son,"  said  a  voice  at  my  elbow,  and  J  turned  to  see 
a  truly  lovely  and  lovable  pair,  slowly,  but  smilingly,  mak- 
ing their  way  through  the  crowd  toward  us.  It  was  Vir- 
ginia Carey  and  her  eldest  son ;  there  was,  indeed,  no  mis- 
taking that  beautiful  face,  with  its  clear  eyes  serenely  shin- 
ing with  the  light  of  love  and  quiet  joy.  Time  had  been, 
as  every  one  else  felt  constrained  to  see,  very  good  to  Vir- 
ginia— he  had  taken  nothing,  but  given  every  thing.  Her 
graceful  form  had  acquired  the  very  contour  that  it  had 
wanted  ;  her  once  intensely-brilliant  complexion  was  of  a 
more  delicate,  roseate  shade,  but  then  her  cheek  was  rounder, 
and  her  golden-red  hair,  that  still  hung  in  superb  masses  of 
ringlets  down  each  side  her  face,  was  now  of  a  richer  and 
darker  hue,  approaching  a  warm,  brilliant  auburn.  She  was 
tastefully  dressed  for  the  occasion,  in  a  mazarine-blue  cash- 
mere habit,  and  a  drawn-silk  bonnet,  of  the  same  color  and 
shade.  In  less  time  than  I  have  taken  to  describe  her,  she 
had  reached  the  stall,  and  warmly  grasped  the  hand  I  had 
held  out  to  greet  her. 

"  Is  Mr   Carey  here  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  No,  he  is  particularly  engaged  at  home  with  some  of 
bis  friends.  Indeed,  I  myself  should  not  have  left  them 
to-day,  except  for  my  stall ;  but  here  is  his  representative, 


49(5  THE     TWO     SISTERS. 

who,  though  but  twelve  years  old,  is  so  well  grown  as  to 
be  as  tall  as  his  mother.  My  eldest  son,  Washington 
Carey,"  she  added,  playfully  presenting  the  lad.  "  Come 
home  with  me  this  evening,  and  I  will  show  you  his  three 
brothers  and  his  sister,  all  strangers  to  you,  but  then  I  will 
also  introduce  you  to  some  old  acquaintances,  who  are  now 
on  a  visit  to  us." 

Of  course,  reader,  you  know  I  went. 

We  set  out  early,  and  reached  Prospect  Plains  in  good 
season.  After  changing  our  traveling  habits,  we  entered 
the  drawing-room,  which  was  cheerfully  lighted  up.  and 
then  occupied  by  three  ladies  only,  in  two  of  whom  I 
respectively  recognized  Lady  Cliffe  and  Helen  Hervey. 
The  third  was  a  stranger.  Lady  Cliffe  was  the  same 
magnificent  and  imposing  woman  we  had  formerly  known 
her  to  be.  Helen  Hervey  looked  so  healthful  and  beautiful, 
that  I  should  scarcely  have  recognized  her,  but  for  the 
peculiar  individuality  of  countenance,  the  midnight  eyes, 
eyebro-v?  an<j  hair.  I  was  surprised  and  delighted  when 
Helen  was  introduced  to  me  as  "  Mrs.  Shields,"  and  my 
surprise  and  delight  were  complete,  when  the  strange  lady, 
a  lovely,  intellectual,  and  devout-looking  girl  was  presented 
as  "  Mrs.  Theodore  Hervey." 

Soon  after  these  mutual  introductions  were  over,  the 
gentlemen  of  the  party,  consisting  of  Lord  Cliffe,  Mr. 
Hervey,  Mr.  Carey,  and  Judge  Washington,  now  a  very 
white-headed  but  hale  old  gentleman,  entered  from  the 
dining-room,  and  then  conversation  became  general. 

As  soon  as  every  one  was  engaged,  and  I  found  myself 
in  a  distant  corner  with  Mrs.  Carey,  she  gave  me  these 
particulars  :  That  Theodore  and  Helen  Hervey,  after  many 
years'  absence,  had  returned  to  visit  their  native  country 
and  their  parents.  That  at  Richmond,  Theodore  had 
renewed  an  acquaintance  with  a  young  lady,  the  daughter 


CONCLUSION.  497 

of  Major  Lincoln,  which  acquaintance  had  ripened  into  a 
mutual,  deep,  and  lasting  esteem  and  affection  ;  and  that 
they  had  been  recently  married,  and  were  to  go  out  to 
India  in  the  spring.  That  Helen,  having  attained  robust 
health,  and  being  superseded  in  her  office  of  consoler  to 
her  brother,  had  at  last  rewarded  the  lohg  and  faithful 
attachment  of  Broke  Shields.  They  lived  with  the  old 
parents  at  the  parsonage.  They  were  present  at  the  hall 
to  meet  Lord  and  Lady  Cliffe,  who  had  just  arrived  from 
England  on  a  visit.  That  Lord  and  Lady  Cliffe  would 
spend  the  autumn,  winter,  and  spring,  at  Prospect  Plains. 
That  in  the  early  part  of  the  summer,  they  would  sail  for 
England. 

"  And,"  added  Ginnie,  in  conclusion,  "we  are  all  going 
with  them,  to  be  present  at  the  World's  Fair,  with  the 
Lord's  blessing." 


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A  Noble  Lord,  

Lost  Heir  of  Linlith-nw...,..;.. 
Tried  for  her  Life,  f"l4" 
Cruel  as  the  Grave,  L.JLL< 
The  Maiden  Widow,  
The  Family  Doom  
Prince  of  Dirkness,  
The  Bride's  Fate 

1  75 
1  75 
1  75 
I  75 
1  75 
1  75 
1  7i 
1  75 
1  75 
1  75 
1   75 
1  75 
1   75 
1  75 
1  76 
1   75 

The  Lost  Heiress,  

The  Two  Sisters,  
Lady  of  the  Isle  

The  Three  Beauties,  
Vivin  :  or  the  Secret  of  Power, 
The  Missing  Bride  
Love's  Labor  Won,  
The  Gipsy's  Prophecy,  
Haunted  Homestead  
Wife's  Victory 

The  Changed  Bride?,..,  J... 
How  He  Won  Her  {.„ 
Fair  Play  1 

Fiillen  Pride 

\llworth  Abbev 

The  Christinas  Gue«t 

The  Mother-in-Law  

The  Willow's  Son  

[ndia  ;  Pearl  of  Pearl  River,.. 
Curse  of  Clifton  
Discarded  Daughter  

The  Fortune  Seeker,  
The  Fatal  Marriage  

Above  are  each  in  cloth,  or  each  one  is  in  pnper  cover,  at  $1.50  each. 

RIDDELL'S  MODEL  ARCHITECT. 

Ridd»ll's  Model  Architect.  With  22  Inrge  full  pa?e  colored  illus- 
trations, and  44  plates  of  ground  plnns.  with  plans,  specifications, 
costs  of  building,  etc.  One  large  quarto  volume,  bound, $15  09 


•^"  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Price, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa.  (1) 


EVERY  LADY  SHOULD  HAVE  IT. 


PETERSONTSJVIAGAZSNE 

Prospectus  for  1873!! 
THE   CHEAPEST  AND  BEST. 


PETERSON'S  MAGAZINE  has  the  best  Ordinal  Stories  of  any  of  the  lady's 
books,  the  best  Colored  Fashion  Plate.s,  the  best  Receipts,  the  best  Steel  Engravings, 
Ac.,  &c.  Every  family  ought  to  take  it.  It  fines  more  for  the  money  than  any  in 
the  world.  It  will  contain,  next  year,  in  its  twelve  numbers — 

ONE  THOUSAND  PAGES ! 

FOURTEEN  SPLENDID  STEEL  PLATES! 

TWELVE  COLORED  BERLIN  PATTERNS  ! 
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NINE  HUNDRED  WOOD  CUTS  I 

TWENTY-FOUR  PAGES  OF  MUSIC! 

It  will  also  give  FIVE  ORIGINAL  COPYRIGHT  NOVELETS,  by  Mrs.  Ann  8.  Stephens, 
Frank  Lee  Benedict,  and  others  of  the  best  authors  of  America.  Also,  nearly  a 
hundred  s!u>rter  stories,  ALL  ORIGINAL.  Its  superb 

MAMMOTH  COLORED  FASHION  PLATES 

are  ahead  of  all  others.    These  plates  are  engraved  on  steel,  TWICE  THE  USUAL  SIZE. 


TERMS  (Always  in  Advance)  $2.00  A  YEAR. 

GREAT  REDUCTIONS  TO  CLUBS. 


2  Copies  for    &3.5O 


With  a  copy  of  the  superb  mezzotint  (20  x  16) 


"  CHRIST  WEEPING  OVER  JERUSALEM  "  to  the  person 
4-          (     getting  up  the  Club. 

,4  Copies  for     §0.50     f  With  an  extra  copy  of  the  Magazine  for  the 

6        "  "          9.OO    .|     year  1873,  as  a  premium,  to  the  person  getting  up 

10        "  "        14.00 


8  Coni  *s  for  •!•»  OO  "Xtra  C°P7  °f  *he  Magazine'  ""* 

»1~.UU    J      the         mlum  me/,zotint,  to  the  person  getting  up 

17'°°    1     the  Club. 

Address,  post-paid, 

CHARLES  J.  PETERSON, 

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43=-SpeoinieBs  seut  gratis  if  written  for. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


L  OCT    ' 
SEP  2  8  1984 


L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444 


»          South™^  I  TO*M&  37J 
The  two  sisters 


PS 

2892 

T93 


